Strength Through Wounding
by The Magnificent Kiwi
Summary: July, 1998. Four wounded hearts try to make sense of four shattered worlds. This is the story of the fractured S.T.A.R.S. in the weeks following the mansion incident. C/J
1. Prologue

**Strength Through Wounding**

_Through our bleeding, we are one.  
__Through the darkness breaks the light.  
Through the light unending pain.  
Deify the wretched ones till the darkness comes again.  
_~A Fire Inside~

_**Prologue**_

**_July 25th, 1998. 7:30am._**

There was blood beneath her feet. Pools of it. In the distance, a scream; a cry.

Her entire body trembled, sobs falling from her lips like the crimson droplets that fell from her hair. It would all have to go, every strand. How could it ever be clean again?

Footsteps pounded beyond the door, liquid raining down on her from somewhere above. It fell into the cracks around her, into the paper that peeled away from the wall. The tiles were broken, the glass that should have shielded her little more than shattered pieces of light upon the floor. The strange distant roar of water was all that kept the howls at bay.

Why wouldn't they stop?

Again, the footsteps.

She pulled her legs closer to her chest. Never in her life had she felt so defenceless; naked and shaking on the floor as blood seeped through her toes and down her arms. She was covered now, patches of lightly tanned skin barely showing beneath the mess.

"Oh God," she called in a trembling voice. Jill Valentine had never prayed, had never felt the need to. Her options had run out, her mind focusing on the only concept that had not failed her.

She could feel phantom breath against her skin. Moist fingers slid around her ankles, up her calves and around her waist; tugging, stealing, feeling their prey in bloodthirsty anticipation. She dared not look to validate their existence.

The foosteps were outside the door now, shuffling to a halt mere feet from her form.

Tears mingled with blood, carving a clean path down her cheeks. Fear had left her, acceptance refusing to set in.

"Jill!" Richard's voice cried out to her, urgent and deathly afraid. She knew what would follow; a scream, the tear of flesh from bone.

"No!" she screamed.

The door shook violently, fists pounding furiously from the other side. Her eyes caught the dust that fell from the frame, and the hinges that suddenly snapped away.

Instinctively, her arm shot out, fingers sliding along the cold tile. She did not know what good it would do but she was cornered; feral and terrified.

"Jill!"

Suddenly, her surroundings were not so bleak. The tiles were smooth and perfectly porcelein, the walls unblemished. The blood that had coated her seconds before was nothing but water, water that fell from the shower head above. Undead hands were gone, replaced by shadows and wounds. The glass...the glass screen was intact, for the seconds she was allowed to gaze upon it before it was forcefully slid back.

Chris dropped to his knees at the edge of the shower, reaching out to grab the shoulders of the girl whose cries had drawn him to that very room.

She blinked, arm still pressed to the tiles before she brought them both to her chest, screaming now for a reason other than terror.

"What the hell are you doing?" she screeched. "Get out!"

Chris reached desperately for a towel, falling back onto his ass from the sheer force of her anger. She was still screaming when he came to her again, eyes closed as he pushed the towel against her. He at least had the sense to allow her to adjust it appropriately before opening them again.

Jill remained pressed against the far wall of the shower cubicle, huddled fearfully into a ball. Chris was a predator to her in that moment, his eyes quite possibly seeing more of her than she ever wished him to see. But as his presence lingered and he attempted a sympathetic smile she felt the fear melt away. All that he had done flooded back to her and suddenly she found herself on her knees, arms around his neck.

"You were screaming," he told her. He breathed in deeply to continue but the words failed to materialise.

His words seemed to strike a chord within her and she moved away, sinking sideways into him as she settled back down onto the floor, eyes drawn to where she had previously been cowering.

There was blood here...she had seen it. The hands...the screams...

"Were you?" she asked in deep, breathy gasps. "Screaming? I heard someone. I thought-"

Chris shook his head mournfully. His clothes were now soaked through, his attention fully on holding her while she needed him.

"For what it's worth, I hear them too."

The towel slipped a fraction of an inch, prompting hands to grasp the edges before it fell. His words floated through her conciousness, barely heard against the buzz that just would not fade away.

Reality slowly seeped through the gaps in her consciousness. It was morning, she was in her own apartment... Yes, that was right. She had taken a shower. A shower to rid herself of the grime, the sweat and the blood, not all of which had been her own. Her skin had burned beneath the force of her frantic scrubbing, the memories stubbornly refusing to be washed away with the soap. For the briefest of moments she had caught her own reflection in the smooth glass of the shower cubicle. Ribs that were painfully bruised; arms that bore deep welts, thighs that were almost completely black. She looked inhuman and sure enough, the flesh began to peel, to fall to the floor and stain the water red. She had slipped and had scrabbled desperately up the wall that began to morph before her very eyes.

The blood had fallen next.

She should have known that such an event would not leave them unscarred.

"Will you stay?" she asked without hesitation. All embarrassment that his sudden entrance had caused faded away. "At least until I fall asleep."

Chris smiled, though she could tell by the expression on his beaten face that it masked fear to match her own.

"I doubt sleep is possible," he answered smoothly. "But yes, I'll stay. I don't want to face the nightmares alone either."

The simple fact that he had not joked about her lack of clothing, or thrown some brash builder-grade comment her way, offered her a glimpse of the depths to which the grief had already touched him.

Not a single word had been spoken about their fallen comrades. Even Brad had remained respectfully silent on the short journey home. It was not that they did not care; they simply were not ready to face the truth. They were all too weary to face Irons when they had finally returned. Fortunately the hour was still early and many of the employees of the R.P.D. had not yet begun work so they were able to slip into the parking lot with no questions asked.

Rebecca had tended to the worst of their injuries, though thankfully none were life-threatening. They considered themselves extremely lucky that the most serious injuries sustained were the ribs the tyrant had broken as Chris and Jill were thrown about the lab. All things considered, it could have been much worse.

Rest was all they needed, and it was the one thing they all knew they would not be blessed with that night. Barry had retreated to his family, Brad to his and Rebecca to her one-bedroom apartment. Jill had offered her spare room to the girl, but she had revealed the wish to be alone for a while. Jill on the other hand was not so keen on facing the emptiness of her lonesly apartment and was extremely thankful when Chris agreed to stay while she showered. He had seemed as lost as she and she knew from the moment the locks on her front door turned that he would not be leaving that night.

Chris helped her to limp towards her double bed, fragile limbs barely capable of carrying her the small distance. He was respectful enough to leave her to slip into an old T-shirt while he changed into one of her father's old shirts. It was a little tight but he thought that it was good enough for one night.

They dared not consider what faced them when they woke. S.T.A.R.S. had been destroyed, most of its members dead and the others hurting from a story no one in their right mind would believe. They would be infamous and quite possibly blamed for the deaths of their friends. Jill knew that the accusations would be the hardest part to face. Maybe she would have been strong enough once, but now she was not so sure.

_"Jill! Look out!"_

_"Richard!"_

_"Jill, don't!"_

_"Richard!"_

_"Hold her back!"_

No matter how tightly she closed her eyes, their voices continued to echo in her mind.

She refused to move as Chris settled down onto the bed, pulling the covers over them both. In all honesty, she had not expected him to respond as she reached out, hoping to pull him close enough to embrace.

She did not know why, but something about his arms made her feel safe. Safety was what she craved that morning. Safety was all she could ask for.

For once, she did not feel the sudden rush of blood that his close proximity had brought about in the past few months. She was far too exhausted to crave his touch, or even to appreciate that he held her to him perhaps a little too possessively. It was when the bare skin of his thigh touched her own that she felt the tingle slither up the inside of her thigh, to that place deep within her that only he seemed able to touch. It would have been so easy to move her hands south and her lips north, to beg his indulgence for an hour or so and allow him to heal her wounds for a while. He was hurting too and she could feel the tension in every muscle that pressed against her; tension she could so easily release...

It was not love; it was not even lust. Comfort was what they both sought. It would amount to nothing more than two friends taking away each other's pain.

She knew he would be good at erasing her pain. The mere touch of his lips to hers would be enough to heal her soul...until they left.

No, she did not want that with Chris. As much as she longed for his touch, she did not wish for it this way. If she was to have Chris Redfield, she wanted all of him; body and mind, heart and soul. His body may have provoked a few innapropriate thoughts but it was not his body she had fallen for.

Soon, all she fell for was sleep.

* * *

The apartment was empty once Rebecca's key had found the lock. Bare, depressing; she had not yet found the opportunity to decorate and most of her possessions remained packed into cardboard boxes.

She made no effort to pick up her feet and they dragged carelessly across the carpet, keys falling to the kitchen counter.

Jill's offer still echoed in her ears and momentarily she felt annoyance at rejecting the offer of a bed. Then the moans would return, her sense of smell would be blotted out and she knew that alone was the only way she could handle the guilt.

'Besides, she probably fell straight into Chris's bed.'

Jealousy pricked at her nerves and she was forced to once again repeat the desire for isolation so that she did not wish for arms to fold into. She barely knew Chris Redfield, but he seemed to be a kind man and she fell all too easily for a little kindness.

Truth be told, she did not know many of her comrades. A rookie of barely a week, most of her friendships had been formed within the Bravo team...and now they were gone.

Her inexperience was not all that made her feel aeons younger than the others, Redfield and Valentine in particular. It was their attitudes, their advanced personalities and their private lives. Barry was married with children, Jill was far more experienced than her in the ways of men and love, and from the impression her short tenure at the R.P.D. had given her, Chris was somewhat of a lady's man. A lady's man who would look past a girl of model calibre to gaze at his partner. Their lives were too complex for her inexperienced mind. She was eighteen years old, and had barely been kissed. The majority of her friends were only just entering college, yet she was a graduate working for a well-known combat unit. She had never been drunk in her life.

She was too young for this...

A wound delivered quickly did not heal as it had opened; it was common knowledge. In the short space of a week she had made six good friends and in the even shorter space of a single night, every one of them had died.

No, they had been _murdered_.

Her bed was as hard as it had been that morning. The sheets offered her little comfort but she took what she could.

'Perhaps I will wake up and find it has all been some awful nightmare?'

Soon, the pillow was damp with her tears. Of course it had been real; she could feel the pain in every limb. Wounds that had taken root deep beneath the surface of her skin. Some would heal, others would not...

The phone rang off the hook several times, but she refused to answer. It would only be her parents. They worried, as all good parents did, and checked the website of the Raccoon Times every day for news of S.T.A.R.S. and any possible danger their daughter may be in. She had been missing for some time and there was little doubt that Bravo team's misfortune had found its way into the news.

Perhaps it was selfish to ignore their worry. After all, they only cared. But how could she face them? They had told her she was moving too fast, that law enforcement was not a career path she would be able to handle. Part of her had accepted the position in S.T.A.R.S. to prove them wrong, and to prove to herself that she was so much more than Rebecca Chambers, biology geek.

Wesker's selection method proved that she was good; only the best were selected for Umbrella's trials. Or were Alpha team the best, and Bravo merely cannon fodder? Why assign a medic with an interest in the field of clinical pathology to a mission involving a lie that would be too easily exposed by such an individual?

Whatever their plan was, she knew that every member of Alpha team outshone her. She would not even be alive if it had not been for Chris's protection...or Richard's.

She tried not to dwell on the details of Richard's death. He had put himself in harms way for her so many times. She should have been the one to tackle Jill to the ground. She should have been the one to float to the surface of the bloodstained water in too many pieces to count. She should not have stood by and watched the monstrosity approach them...she should have acted.

The phone rang once again. Moments later it was in three pieces on the floor, the wire frayed at the end that had pulled away from the wall.

The silence was blissful.

"Rebecca..."

* * *

Barry Burton was a family man through and through. He would not accept overtime, he would not work holidays and every year he handpicked his daughters' presents, taking the whole day off work if need be.

Barry Burton would die for his family. In fact, Barry Burton was disturbed to the depths to which he would sink to protect his beloved wife and daughters.

They must have been watching from their window, he concluded as his eldest daughter bounded down the driveway the moment his engine died. They always waited up for him, but he hoped they had seen sense on this particular occasion.

He was reluctant to exit his vehicle at first. Blood, dirt and who knew what else still stained his clothing. The few wounds he had sustained were painful enough. How could he assure his daughter that her father was alright when the mere sight of him screamed the opposite.

"Daddy, what happened to you?" Moira asked as he dropped to his knees to embrace her. The bear hug he involuntarily trapped her in was perhaps a little too forceful, but he had to know that it was truly her.

"Daddy...had a rough night, sweetheart," he answered. It was as close to the truth he was willing to reveal to the child.

"You've got red on you," Polly pointed out.

"And brown..."

Barry smiled at the innocence he envied at that moment. Oh how wonderful it was to be young and not know of the true horrors that lay out there.

"Barry!"

Kathy Burton threw herself into her husband's arms, petrified in every sense of the word. Sorrow overcame him when he sensed the desperation in her touch. How foolish he had been to play with his life when his family needed him so.

His family...

"Kathy, are you alright?" There was one thing he had to know.

"Am _I _alright?" she asked incredulously. "How can you ask that, you damn fool? What the hell happened? When you didn't come home... Oh, God."

Barry held his wife as she wept, and held out an arm for his daughters when hands began to tug at his leg.

"There was nobody here?" he asked, seeking further clarification once her sobs had sufficiently subsided. "You're alright?"

Kathy blinked up at him, searching for meaning behind the dirt that coated his face.

"Honey, what are you talking about?"

Of course. The bastard had been lying. If Barry thought this knowledge would ease his mind, he was wrong. He had almost shot Jill, had recklessly led them all into Wesker's trap...and it was all for nothing.

He should have known better than to take that lying sack of shit on his word.

"Come on inside," Kathy urged in a soothing voice. "I'll make you a sandwich and you can get cleaned up."

"Please...no meat," he begged, the thought almost bringing laughter to his throat.

The dirt was not easily shifted, and he was sure the sandwiches would return later in the day. There was nothing like death and decay to put a man off his food. He explained the events to Kathy as well as he could, though he was careful to omit his treachery. Even she would be unable to understand why he would betray his friends. Kathy Burton was a strong woman and she had little respect for those who hurt others, no matter what their reasons. Losing her love was bad enough, but Barry did not think he could handle losing her respect.

He waited for sleep, but none came. Instead, his computer invited him over. His immediate reaction was to check the news, to see if Bravo's disappearance had hit the Web yet. He wouldn't put it past Irons to milk the situation for more than it was worth.

Irons would no doubt want a word-for-word report on the night's events. Barry knew for a fact that none of the others had it in them to recall the horrors they had faced. The last time he laid eyes on Valentine he was sure she was on the verge of tears. Jill was as strong as Kathy, if not stronger, with exceptional control over her emotions. He had never once seen her cry. The only emotion she ever allowed others to see spin out of control was the anger she directed towards those in her way during an investigation she was unusually passionate about. Or to Chris.

The expression in her eyes as they left the aqua ring haunted him still. Empty...lifeless. As though emotion escaped her and she were trying to organise her mind from scratch.

His fingers moved before his mind thawed and he found himself typing the beginnings of a report. If it would save the others from facing the darkness... After all, he owed them.

* * *

Chris woke that afternoon to unusual warmth. Then he saw her... She seemed so out of place in the moment; so peaceful on a day that promised to be anything but.

She held herself close to his body, as though she sought something more than his warmth. He had not known what it was about his embrace that she had craved so desperately, but as long as it helped he did not mind her proximity.

'If only she wasn't so damn beautiful.'

The light touched upon her face in a way that hid the many bruises and grazes. Her lips were broken and her cheeks were flushed; it seemed unfair that her skin should be so inviting when it was so marred. For a moment, he considered chancing a kiss. Just a small peck on the cheek.

But this was Jill Valentine. A small peck would never be enough. He would want her in his arms, and he would want all of her. Every flaw, every nuance. It was all beautiful. She was always beautiful, even when ugly.

Chris could not begin to understand the depths of the desperation that held him prisoner then and there. While his heart told him that it was all or nothing, his body and his wounded psyche told him that he would take whatever she was willing to offer at that moment. But it wouldn't be real...

'And who is to say she would want any part of you?'

His mind interrupted his thoughts and every concept of what they could have melted away around him

'Look at you...what would she want with you? Your body is broken and your soul is weak. You couldn't protect your friends, what makes you think you could protect her? She deserves more than you, orphan.'

The voice was unkind and horrifically familiar. It was the voice that had haunted him in the wake of the accident that claimed the lives of his parents. The voice that had be nurtured by months of floating around foster families that didn't give a shit about him or Claire...only the money they received for putting a roof over their heads. It had felt like years had passed before their aunt and uncle took them in.

'Fuck off,' was all he had to say to the annoying voice.

Even though the voice had retreated back into the nothingness from whence it had sprung, its point lingered. He couldn't protect her.

Jill stirred beside him, lips parting almost painfully to hum a faint tune of annoyance.

"You awake?" she muttered a moment later. Chris responded by tucking fallen strands of her dark hair behind her ears, clearing her face of irritations.

"Don't think I was asleep for long," he sighed.

His eyes had closed on many occasions, but he did not know on how many of them he had actually found the sleep his body longed for.

Too many monsters lurked behind his eyelids. He had no desire to face them, because he knew that victory was impossible. How can you fight that which isn't real? The screams were all in his head, as were the images that forced themselves into his consciousness. He was well aware of this but they still unnerved him, still ate away at his sanity until all he could do was hold Jill and pray that she was not wracked by the same horrifying guilt.

"What time is it?" she asked groggily. He wanted to lie, to tell her to go back to sleep because they had plenty of time, but he knew that it would do no good. Instead, he glanced over her shoulder at the alarm clock that she had never set.

"Twelve-forty," he answered. "I hate to say it but we should leave soon."

Surprisingly enough, she did not complain. Her warmth left his side as she rolled stiffly out of the bed, hissing in pain at her aggravated wounds.

"Are you alright?" It was a stupid question. Of course she wasn't.

"I never realised...how much...it all hurts," she gasped. "I suppose the adrenaline was blocking it out."

Chris made to move towards her, but a sharp pain up his right side caused him to grunt in acute pain. His ribs were broken, how could he have forgotten? There was more pain, all around his body. Every movement sparked another stab of agony. Soon, his head throbbed from the combined effects of the signals that suddenly sped to his brain.

"I'm sorry," Jill spoke suddenly.

He did not understand the meaning of her apology. If anything, _he_ should have been the one to apologise.

"I know you would have prefered to be alone," she continued. "I'm sorry I was so-"

"Jill," he interrupted. "You have nothing to be sorry for. Look, I- I appreciated the company. I should be thanking you, not accepting unfounded apologies."

He did not sense any movement from her direction, but knew that she had accepted his words. Perhaps she was simply too exhausted to argue? He knew that he was.

"Thank you," she whispered finally. "Chris...about last night."

"Don't worry," he laughed dryly. "I didn't see anything."

A forced laugh followed, but even this did not alleviate the crushing pain that suddenly came to his chest. He was amazed by the effort it took to joke as he had before. Words that he used to tease his partner often came of their own accord.

"That's not what I meant."

He should have known that humour would get neither of them far.

"You don't have to explain," he assured her. Again, every word added weight to his chest, building in a violent crescendo until he was suffocating from the pressure.

He was almost glad when she left the room, taking fresh clothes with her. It offered him the opportunity to fully pull back the covers and attempt to pull his own clothes over bruised limbs. There was no sense in using Jill's shower, not when he only had the same filthy uniform to change into.

Irons would be waiting for them when they arrived. He could almost sense the man's fury from several blocks away. The little sleep they had managed to steal would not prepare them for the impending confrontation, and from the media flurry that would follow. The chief would never approve media coverage, and would perhaps even try to quiet it down a little. The fact that one of his subordinates, a man he had _trusted_, had single-handedly destroyed what he often thought of as the R.P.D.'s greatest achievement would bring unprecidented shame to his name. His desire to run for mayor was no secret, and an event such as this would greatly affect his chances.

Perhaps a tip-off was in order...

The public had to know the truth about Umbrella. One way or another, they _would_ know.

* * *

The buzz had faded from her ears by the time she hung up on Chris. Fifteen minutes was not nearly enough time to ready herself for what lay ahead. She had showered, cooked a reasonable lunch and re-bandaged her more severe wounds. Even so, her mind raced at a rate that destroyed what little organisational skills she had.

Rebecca reached for the TV remote, pressing the volume button until the deep voice of the lunchtime newsreader drowned out her thoughts.

_"Mystery still surrounds the fate of the S.T.A.R.S. team after the mysterious events of last night. As reported to you yesterday, S.T.A.R.S. Bravo team began a physical investigation of the Arklay Forest area, believed the be the operating grounds of a cannabalistic cult police claim is responisble for the recent murders that have been perpetrated in the area."_

She sighed deeply, knowing that it was too much to ask for a few hours of peace. The 'Cannibal Murders' had gripped the entire city, turning the usual humid summer atmosphere into suffocating fear and trepidation. The once-popular camping grounds had become deserted, Raccoon began to lose valuable tourists and its citizens were confined to their homes in fear. It was journalistic gold, and had dominated the news channels since the beginning of the investigation.

_"Police Chief Brian Irons confirmed last night that S.T.A.R.S. had lost contact with Bravo team. Alpha team appeared to meet the same fate when they failed to return from a search and resuce mission and the mystery deepened further still with reports of an explosion in the depths of Arklay Forest at dawn. Chief Irons later released a statement that Alpha team had returned, but has so far refused to elaborate. Given what the public have referred to as the police department's mishandling of the investigation, rumours have already begun to circulate regarding the fate of the S.T.A.R.S. team. More on this story as it develops."_

'So Irons got our note...'

She thought it a little unprofessional to leave a note stating their return, but none of them had been in the mood to talk. Her professional opinion told her that they should perhaps have all been recovering in a hospital ward, but the others had refused all help but hers and went on their way.

It did bring a smile to her face when she considered the hole Irons' pacing must have been burning into the carpet. One destroyed helicopter, one team missing and a mansion scattered in various pieces across a forest that was no doubt on fire was enough to push anyone's blood pressure through the roof.

"Bet'cha they could rebuild the mansion with the bricks he's shitting right now."

Rebecca turned away from the voice she could not hear, from the figure that was not standing at the edge of the sofa. The trembles that wracked her body betrayed her forced reaction of tranquility. If she did not listen, it did not exist...

"Oh, yeah. Sorry, I forgot you're ignoring me," the voice chuckled as she switched off the TV and took her empty mug into the small kitchen.

"How long are you going to keep this up?"

As the cup fell from her fingers and into the sink, Rebecca looked up into the eyes of Richard Aiken. He was just as he had been last night; handsome, youthful. His orange S.T.A.R.S.-issue T-shirt was soiled yet dry, the left shoulder almost entirely open to accommodate the bandage she herself had strapped to the wound beneath. Blood soaked through the gauze, stained the frayed edges of his T-shirt and the dips of muscle in his arm. There were smaller cuts that marred his smiling face, but the blood that had once leaked from them lay dry around the edges.

Rebecca swallowed slowly, expending more energy than she expected forcing her fear down into her stomach.

"Y-you're not real," she stuttered. "You're an hallucination, b-brought on by stress, sleep deprivation and blood loss."

Richard sighed, leaning back on his right foot as he observed her with what she recognised as pity.

"I knew you would say that," he muttered with downcast eyes. "Truth be told, I don't even know what I am."

A series of sharp raps on the door to her apartment sent her to her feet, poised defensively before she recognised the sound for what it was. Several seconds passed slowly as she peered through the peephole and then drew the locks she had fastened in place the night before. Never before had she felt the need to use the Yale lock, the deadbolt, the chain and the standard hook all at once. Raccoon may not have been the safest city in the state, but crime was relatively unheard of in her neighbourhood.

"Neighbour let me in," Chris explained as she allowed him into her small apartment. "Jill's waiting in the car. You ready?"

Her head moved of its own volition, displaying agreement she did not feel.

Chris had obviously showered recently; his hair remained damp, the scent of overused shower gel reaching her from inches away. If he wanted to hide the fact that he had spent the night at Valentine's, he had done a very bad job, she noted.

That vaguely irritating surge of anger flared within her and for a moment she forgot all about her guests, both invited and not. To her relief, when she turned to scan the living room there was no sign of her fallen comrade.

"Chris..." she began. It was obvious before she spoke that he was thoroughly disinterested in what she had to say. His mind did not seem to be with him in that moment. He could barely look her in the eye.

"I'm sorry," she gasped. "I-"

"It wasn't your fault," he told her bluntly yet compassionately. He seemed to know the thought well, and she was not entirely sure that his statement was directed at her alone.

"I wasn't ready," she lamented further. "Not for this."

For the first time since his arrival, Chris met her eyes and held them in a steady gaze through which he transferred the little strength she could sense lingering within his battered body.

"None of us were," he assured her. "Experience amounts to squat when you're dealing with things that shouldn't be happening. No training in the world could have prepared any of us for what happened."

"But maybe it could have saved them..." she breathed, tone and rhythm falling from her voice. Guilt was an awful emotion.

"You saved me, and you saved Jill."

Rebecca could honestly think of no reply. She had saved no one. It was a fluke, a chance encounter that may or may not have worked.

_"Open the door!"_

_The pure terror in Jill's voice seemed to cut through the metal that seperated them. It was frantic, desperate..._

_Rebecca's hands fumbled up the edges of the solid doorframe, Barry's joining but failing to find anything of use. It was held tight by an electronic lock connected to a control panel that was not responding. Just the kind of luck that she expected._

_"We can't!" Barry shouted back, both sets of eyes drawn to the circular window above their heads. Fingertips brushed against the glass, leaving a bloody streak in their wake._

_There was no blood before, they must be injured..._

_"What do you mean, you _can't_?" Chris roared. His voice was broken by a pained grunt as his body slammed against the door, to no avail._

"Warning. A level five breach has been detected. Containment procedure has been initiated. Biohazard lockdown is in effect. Warning."

_For the first time since the uproar had begun, Rebecca listened to the computerised voice. It was amazing what one could learn when they opened their ears._

_"Something must have broken out," she shouted, her small voice almost completely drowned by the resonating siren that blared above them. "Everything has been locked. Is there nothing on your side?"_

_"Oh God."_

_Her heart thudded to a halt as Jill's cry reached her. Her voice shook tremendously, caught halfway between awe and terrified resignation._

_"What the fuck is that?" Chris asked._

_Whatever it was, those in the hallway never found out._

_A heavy force collided with the door, bending the metal outwards ever so slightly. The screams of their comrades echoed throughout the lab and for the briefest of moments, she was sure that a face had appeared at the window. But it was impossible. No face could be that hideous. No lips, no eyelids...no skin. At least, it did not look like any skin she had encountered before._

_She waited not even a second before her feet propelled her down the hallway, searching for the room they had passed through barely five minutes before. Rebecca was not well versed in the use of computers, but she knew enough to know that a room filled to the brim with them in such an establishment was likely to be a control room._

_Barry bounded clumsily behind her, colliding with several walls as they turned corners sharply. Then, they found it._

_"Come on," she urged herself as she hammered away at the only keyboard that remained firmly attached to a monitor and was in possession of all its keys. There was no way she could have know what she was hitting, but menu after menu popped up and she was so sure that the answer lay there...somewhere. All she had to do was find it._

_"What do I do?" she demanded. Her voice came out as little more than a squeak._

_"I don't know," Barry rushed, as frantic as she. "I'm not good with these damn things."_

_A medic and a weapon's specialist. Nature and strength versus technology. Short of throwing the keyboard through the screen, she could think of nothing that would help their teammates. She could not help but notice the iron in the fact that the three members of the team who could have helped her were either trapped, dead or circling above the facility in the hopes that someone had somehow survived._

_"Wait, what was that?" Barry exclaimed suddenly, a finger pressed to the screen._

_She followed his lead, jumping back several folders until she was presented with a file labelled 'Security Protocols'._

_"This is it!" she exclaimed excitedly, going so far as to involuntarily jump onto the balls of her feet._

_"Disable locks," she spoke aloud as she double-clicked on the correct command._

'This action cannot be performed at this time.'

_"No!"_

_"Containment procedures cannot be overwritten," Barry recited sadly, recalling the memo they had found earlier._

_"There has to be _something_ we can do!"_

_There was another note in the security memo, something she had barely paid attention to as she scanned the meaningless words...something important._

_Her hand moved of its own accord, stepping back two folders until she found the command she had been looking for._

_"Self destruct," Barry read. "You can't be serious?"_

_"In the event of the initiation of the self-destruct system, all staff must evacuate to the surface," she recited. "In order for this to be possible, all internal electronic locks will be released, allowing swift progression through the laboratory facilities."_

_Barry opened his mouth to object further, but her hand moved faster than his tongue. Another siren sounded, this one deeper and more persistant. It was loud enough and obnoxious enough to drive any sane person from the premises; exactly what it was intended to do._

"Warning. The self-destruct system has been activated. Releasing all locks."

_There was a sharp whir of compliance as the door at the far end of the control room unlocked itself._

"All locks have now been released."

_"You think it worked?"_

_Neither of them chose to wait around, wanting instead to find out if their toil had been successful._

_If their friends were still alive._

_The corridors were still empty; the undead that had lurked in the open laying in mangled piles on the floor. The door they were searching for loomed ever closer, and they were met with dismay as it remained firmly closed, no sounds transferring through the reinforced steel._

_Suddenly, a click...a whir!_

_The door opened slowly, a blood-stained yet perfectly human hand reaching round the edge to pull it the extra few inches._

_Chris Redfield stepped into the open, a picture of devastation. His uniform was stained beyond repair, soaked through to his skin. Wounds that had been suffered in their absence glistened morbidly beneath the emergency lights. Valentine was no better, requiring the steady arm of her partner to remain upright._

_Part of Rebecca did not want to know what had happened behind that door._

_"Are you alright?" It was a redundant question, but both partners nodded an answer._

_"Nothing that won't heal," Chris panted. "I think she sprained her ankle."_

_"I didn't," Jill argued, as fiery as always. "It just hurts."_

"Warning. The self-destruct system has been activated. All employees must evacuate immediately. Warning."

_"It was the only way," Rebecca excused meekly. Surely she was in for a hell of a lot of trouble. Her first mission, and already she was facing umemployment._

Her momentary victory had been short lived. In her haste to save her friends, she had failed to remember why the labs had been so devoid of the undead to begin with; at the onset of the outbreak, the employees had sealed the experimental laboratories to prevent the subjects from escaping before they themselves had been locked in by the 'biohazard containment procedure'. In releasing the locks she had also released everything Umbrella had created.

"All things considered, I think you did quite well."

She knew that he was merely saying this to cheer her up, but she accepted the compliment regardless. It was the wrong moment to seek sympathy or explanations from a man she could tell was as wounded as she.

With one last glance around her apartment, Rebecca picked up her coat and left to face uncertainty.

**AN - I know I should probably be working on the epilogue for Only Through The Pain, but I got started on this sooner than I thought I would.  
Basically, this will be a short (in comparison to my last one) story dealing with the S.T.A.R.S. members at moments during the months that follow the mansion incident. It's a sort of distant prequel to Only Through The Pain and Chris and Jill will be the main characters, though the others should hopefully get equal batting. It will chronicle the evolution of their friendship into something more and the beginning of the team's fight against Umbrella. For the mansion incident itself I'm using a blending of the two scenarios. The story should explain it as far as it needs to be explained, but if anyone wants to know how my version goes I'd be happy to answer any questions.**

**The rating is likely to change, as is the genre because I admit that I genre-hopped a bit when planning it. There's horror, drama, friendship, angst, minor action and romance. **

**Music is a great inspiration for me, and the title from this story comes from an A.F.I. song. It sounds much better than what I had originally planned for the title.  
I hope you enjoyed the prologue, and I would very much appreciate your feedback :). I'm attempting to write something a little different than what I am used to, so it really helps to know when I'm doing things right and when I'm missing the mark by a mile.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing that you see here. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no copyright infringement is intended.**


	2. Disintegration

**Strength Through Wounding**

**AN - **Well, this proved more difficult than I thought. You know when you have a plan that seems sufficient but when you put it into sentences it seems lacking? That was my main problem with this chapter. I feel as though perhaps I haven't given certain areas adequate attention, but the word count begs to differ. Eh, it's all down as it should have been so hopefully you all enjoy it :). Chapter title is from a song by Jimmy Eat World.

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed. I try to reply individually but spare time has been lacking in recent months. I promise to try my best to reply to everyone in the future and hope that you all continue to read and to leave feedback.  
An advanced warning: The rating may rise to an M with the next chapter. I won't know until I actually write what I have planned, but it is likely. If this puts you off, I apologise. The M content will likely not be frequent, but I'd rather be on the safe side.  
In case the next chapter does not find its way up before the end of the month, happy holidays to you all! I hope you all receive what you hoped for and go easy on the chocolates. Aw hell, go to town on 'em, that's what the holidays are for!

**_Chapter One_**_ - Disintegration_

_'Alone. Yes, that's the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue.  
Murder doesn't hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym.'  
_~Stephen King~

**_July 25, 1998. 1:24pm_**

The silence grated on every nerve and more. Irons' office smelled like the back end of a very sick camel, and Chris knew it must have had something to do with the dead animals he displayed so cheerfully on his walls. Irons had never been hunting in his life.

Family photographs stood beneath the morbid display, adding to the disturbing scene with the cheerfulness they depicted. Mostly fishing scenes, and long weekends at a log cabin in the Arklay forest. Add the various awards and the American flag that stood alongside the scene, and it painted a picture of the stereotype none of them would have applied to Irons.

It was the one room of the R.P.D. building that appeared to have been left exactly as it was following the conversion from the old Raccoon Museum of Antiquities.

Even the clock did not tick; it scraped.

"The hell is he?" Barry huffed, wringing his hands as though he expected a fight. Irons operated on his own terms, and though it was perhaps in his best interests to speak to the surviving S.T.A.R.S. members, at the moment they were confined to his office, where they could do no harm to his reputation.

Chris observed his teammates carefully, analysing every pose and every twitch. Jill remained as calm and composed as ever, though she could not fool him. Brad was as clueless as he always was, Barry as impatient, and Rebecca...

"You alright, kid?" he asked. She glanced up in a sudden hurry, muttering a startled "hmm?". Her hands were shaking, her body hunched up defensively.

"I'm fine," she lied. Chris recognised the tone, but was not in the mood to press further. If it was important, she would have brought it up.

The door behind them swung open and they all turned in their seats, preparing to rise.

"Stay seated, stay seated," Irons instructed impatiently, making haste as he headed for his desk. "Damn press has been biting my heels all morning."

A ripple of something that did not represent amusement in the slightest passed through the room, five sets of eyes on the Chief as he lowered himself into his ridiculously extravagant armchair.

"I honestly don't know where to start," he spoke at last, once he had accomplished a position Chris assumed was intended to be menacing. "So perhaps you should tell me where the hell you have been for the past six hours!"

Anger rose quickly in Chris's throat, bringing with it words he knew would be better kept to himself. He sensed similar reactions in all directions, but his mind was too focused to turn and acknowledge the others.

"We were all tired, sir," Rebecca spoke meekly. "Most of us were badly wounded. We needed rest; otherwise we would have been in no fit state to give a statement."

When Chris finally turned, he saw that her head was bowed and she was speaking to her bruised hands. She must have been the only member of the team to have been genuinely intimidated by Irons; Vickers included.

Irons contemplated this for a few moments, his eyes scanning the various visible wounds before him.

"That is understandable," he commented at long last. "I assume the others have been admitted to hospital?"

The tension within the small room stretched to incredible lengths. Each survivor waited for another to speak up, hoping that they would not have to validate the fates of their friends. A small sob escaped from Rebecca and her head fell forward into her hands.

"The others are dead...sir," Barry answered. Perhaps he believed that he owed it to the others?

Chris was still unsure what to think of his friend's actions. On the one hand, he had betrayed the team; he had almost led Jill to her death and had certainly slowed their escape. But on the other, he was only trying to protect his family. In his heart, Chris knew that he could never betray his friends in the way Barry had, but when he considered being in his position, with Claire at the mercy of a madman, he honestly did not know what he would do. It was a situation that could only be understood by those who experienced it.

"Did you not read the report I submitted earlier, sir?"

Irons locked eyes with Barry maliciously before turning to a plain brown folder upon his desk.

"_This_ is your report?" He looked down at the papers within the folder and chuckled deeply. "I thought this was some dumb-ass novel you've been working on. You expect me to believe this? I'll ask you again, Burton: where are the others?"

"They're dead!" Chris shouted, deliberately dropping the honorific.

Irons stared him down like a man with a purpose. If looks could kill, he was sure that his brain would be seeping out of his ears by now. Even Wesker had not had the audacity to raise his voice to the chief.

"And I suppose they were killed by, what was it? Ah yes, 'bio-engineered organisms'?" His moustache began to twitch ominously beneath his large nose, the skin around it turning an offensive shade of crimson. "You must think I'm incredibly stupid."

Chris remained silent.

"A conspiracy," Irons read. "Zombies, giant snakes, the Trevor family. And at the heart of it all, the Umbrella Corporation; our most generous benefactors and the driving force behind this entire city. Do you have any idea how crazy this sounds? Have you been smoking those herbal remedies of yours?"

"With all due respect, _sir_," Jill spoke, placing an unfriendly emphasis on the last word. "Is it any wonder that Umbrella have been pumping a lot of money into the R.P.D., specifically the S.T.A.R.S. unit, when one of their operatives was working here under cover?"

Irons' moustache twitched above his top lip, his expression turning sour. It was clear to every member of his small audience that she had struck a deep-seated nerve. Too often did the chief find himself fighting off accusations of police corruption. The S.T.A.R.S. unit was a gem in his soot-stained belt, often discovering minor incidents of corruption itself and seeing that those involved were dragged kicking and screaming to court. The mere suggestion that this juggernaut of righteousness was smack bang in the middle of the largest case of police corruption the department had ever seen was preposterous.

At least, this was Chris's evaluation of his position.

"Miss Valentine, I hope you are aware of the extent of your suggestion," he threatened. There was not a hint of pleasant conversation in his voice. "If you believe yourself to be correct in this absurd assumption then I suggest you file a motion and order a thorough investigation into the structure of the R.P.D. and the involvement of its benefactors."

Chris watched with intrigue as Jill's jaw hardened, her furious gaze never once faltering. She was a pillar of strength in that moment and he could not help but be in awe of her prowess. This woman, this strong, passionate woman...so far removed from the shivering wreck he had found on the bathroom floor that very morning.

"Oh don't worry, sir," she sniped. "I fully intend to."

He knew that her words were empty, that she recognised the futility of such a movement. Umbrella were too quick and too clever. By the time an investigation was ordered, funds would be moved and all trace of such dirty money would be long gone. What she had intended was to elicit a reaction that could be analysed.

Credit had to be given to the man; for all the fear that his eyes revealed, his posture remained unchanged. It was a small hint of an underlying suspicion, but enough to begin a new thought process within each and every one of them.

It always had been a wonder how Irons had risen to a position of power in such a short space of time.

"It is my understanding that you wish to pursue formal inquiries into the Umbrella Corporation and their activities within the Raccoon City area," Irons continued nonchalantly, flipping yet another page before their eyes. "I assume that you bear hard evidence?"

Chris noticed Jill sigh softly as she pushed herself further up in the uncomfortable chair. He could tell by the way her arms shook from her own weight that she was still weakened, as were they all. It was a physical toll they would be paying for perhaps weeks to come.

"No, sir," she admitted with reluctance, her voice adopting a strange sort of sweetness. Perhaps she believed that she could appeal to Irons on an emotional level?

"Ah yes," he conquered triumphantly. "This supposed 'facility' was destroyed when you activated the self-destruct system. All evidence was conveniently destroyed, as was any possible basis for your accusations. Honey, there is not a single officer in this station or lawyer in this state that would pursue this case."

Chris felt his blood boil to his ears. The condescending tone, the slime-covered name he had thrown her way… It was all that he could do to force his anger to the same place as his pain, and resist the overwhelming urge to wring his oversized neck until he apologised and offered her the respect she deserved. He did not know why the man's comments riled him so, but it was becoming nigh on unbearable.

"Sir," spoke a quiet, trembling voice. All attention diverted to Rebecca, shrunk so far down in her chair that it resonated the feeling of an individual who wished that they could fall straight through the soft pine and out of existence.

"We had no choice," she assured the chief. "Regardless of whether or not our colleagues were in danger, what existed in that laboratory could not be allowed to escape. You would have been looking at-"

"At what?" Irons fumed. "I hear these wild stories but all I see is criminal damage, arson, and several dead police officers. You should be less concerned about supporting your own insane notions and start worrying about the charges I could levy against all of you!"

The strangled gasp that escaped the younger member of the team was the last straw. It was a pathetic sound; one of anguish and defeat. Whatever lay behind it forced Chris to his feet, forced his fists to slam against the heavy oak of Irons' desk and his blood to flow furiously to his skin.

"One foot further in that direction and I swear to _God_ I will-" he roared, cut off only when Irons attempted to match his stance, which resulted in a pitiful imitation of concentrated rage.

"Or you will what, Redfield?"

Chris's jaw twitched uncomfortably as he searched for the words to describe the visual that played out in his mind. No expression was graphic enough, no adjectives descriptive enough to explain what he would have truly loved to do to the man.

"Push me and find out," he challenged quietly.

"C-Chris, calm down," Brad stuttered from several paces behind. Chris dared not reply, lest he reveal his true feelings about the man that had suffered a sudden attack of selfish cowardice and left them all for dead.

The others had joined him on his feet, standing their ground. At least, this was what he had hoped. The thought did occur that perhaps they were only joining him because they were all too familiar with his infamous temper. Save for the new girl, they had all bore the brunt of it at least once.

"You are suggesting that we killed the others?" Jill asked, visibly swallowing her fury. "That this is some kind of elaborate hoax?"

Irons did not reply. He merely levelled his eyes at her, the simplicity of his gaze confirming her fears.

"Our friends died out there!" she screamed as she suddenly lurched forward. Her cries were echoed by those of her friends, which fell strangely silent as she continued in her violent chastisement. "You can't even begin to understand what we went through, what we are _still_ going through! You should show us a little respect because we just saved your worthless ass!"

"Miss Valentine, you will _not_ raise your voice to me!" Irons countered. "Two years in service and you still don't know your place."

Chris did not know if it was the sudden outburst of emotion from his usually calm and collected partner or Irons' undeserved remark, but something chipped away the final inch of the chains he had put in place to restrain his temper. Before he was completely aware of his actions, he was halfway across Irons's desk, reaching out for something to grab so that he could pull that smug face close enough to pummel.

Strong arms restrained him, and he was sure that he must have been foaming at the mouth by the time Barry succeeded in pulling him a safe distance from his victim.

Irons appeared unperturbed but they all recognised the frightened quiver of his pale hands as fingers teased his moustache.

"Thank you, Burton," he spoke calmly, "and thank _you_, Redfield. A course of action is now clear to me."

* * *

"Evaluation?" Chris fumed for the thousandth time. "Who the hell does he think he is?"

"He's the chief," Barry reminded him grimly. "He has the authority. Just be thankful he didn't fire our asses."

"Thankful?" Chris began to take his repetition of words quite seriously. "I should have handed my badge in then and there. Smug bastard."

Jill flinched as his plate slammed against the tabletop. Several stray peas rolled towards her bowl, desperately escaping the mood that turned the very air around Chris sour.

"The hell you looking at?" he growled as the clash of hard material drew the attention of nearby diners. In a flurry of cutlery, they turned back to their meals.

Even at the best of times, the cafeteria of the police department was teeming with employees and visitors alike. It was one of the many features of the old museum that had been chosen to be carried forward, and was frequented not only by officers, but also by families of individuals that had been pulled in for questioning. It was the attention of two of the latter that had landed on their gathering.

Jill quietly picked up her spoon and tapped at the surface of the tomato soup she had picked up without a thought.

"We need our jobs because we need all the power we can get," she told her festering partner. "If the P.D. can't help us then fuck it, we'll do it ourselves."

She was aware of Chris's focus shifting to her, and to the whirlpool she was attempting to create in the thick liquid before her.

"You have a point," he admitted, with less reluctance than she had expected. As her eyes rose briefly, he offered a comforting smile and she accepted it with much gratitude.

"You're not serious?" Brad asked after a few moments of silence. "After all that they did? They'll kill us!"

"Or die trying," Jill smiled, her eyes glistening with pride as a moment of mutual amusement passed between herself and Chris. As he broke eye contact with her she paused for thought, wondering if she had flirted with him or had merely offered some much-needed comic relief. Whatever it was, it had been reciprocated and the resulting happiness settled into a hollow in her chest, far away from the pain and confusion that riddled her wounded form.

'You flirt with one another all the time,' she told herself, over and over. 'It's harmless fun.'

"We know too much," Brad murmured hypnotically. "They won't just let us walk away from this."

Jill could sense the fury rising once again within the man before her, though he succeeded in restraining his contempt by shovelling a forkful of mashed potato into his mouth.

"Brad, we have to do this!" Rebecca insisted, so much so that her body balanced precariously on the edge of her plastic chair. "We can't let their deaths be for nothing!"

"And what if our poking around gets us all killed? It's not going to go anywhere; you heard what Irons said. They're dead, and there's nothing we can do. Just…learn to deal with it."

Jill narrowly avoided the knife that spun towards her as Chris's right hand thrust an accusing finger in the pilot's direction.

"You have no right to make comments like that," he spat.

"Come on, Chris," Brad tried, forcing his tone to the level of a plea. "Drop the lame machismo act; you have no one to impress."

The fork joined the knife, Chris's body spinning in his chair so that the older man could witness the full extent of his furious irritation. For a moment, Jill felt the need to prepare herself for a brawl.

"You have no _right_ to comment on friendship and loyalty. You deserted us, right when we needed you the most. So if you don't shut the-"

An ear-piercing shriek of metal on tile seared through his words. Jill vaguely registered Rebecca's form leave her side, and then she was half way out of the door, leaving little but confusion and shame in her wake.

Brad's chair followed hers, though he was careful to avoid stepping around his much stronger colleague.

"Maybe I don't," he chirped sheepishly. "Maybe you're right; this has nothing to do with me. It's all well and good, because I don't want anything to do with this. I'm sorry, but this truth is not worth dying for."

Jill waited for the attention to turn to her, as it always did in the wake of such a commotion. Sure enough, Chris smiled apologetically and reached to pull a stray pea from the sleeve of her shirt.

"Just for once I'd actually like to finish a threat," he joked, though the mood viciously rejected his light-heartedness and he was left to hang his head in what she could only assume was shame.

She resisted the urge to take his hand, deeming the action inappropriate. Perhaps it was, perhaps it was completely innocent…she no longer knew what was innocent in the context of her relationship with her best friend.

There were no words in her mind that she could think to speak, and no air in her lungs to make such a simple function possible. The warm soup did little to chase away the unnatural chill beneath her skin, and the wounds that ate away at her energy and tolerance throbbed persistently. She was amazed that Chris could remain so animated given the extent of his own injuries. The mild collision with Irons' desk was sure to have aggravated his broken ribs.

The soup slopped from her spoon, back into the bowl. The appetite that had plagued her throughout the course of their meeting evaporated in an instant. Thick beads of liquid dripped slowly, achingly, into the larger sea of liquid.

Drips…

What was once thick and congealed became fluid and light. Her vision swam in and out of focus, Chris's voice droning on as little more than background noise. Bubbles floated to the crust, skin breaking the dry surface. Skin became flesh, flesh became bone, and her spoon slipped helplessly into the abyss.

"Hey!"

The pain that resulted as her head snapped back shot down her spine and through her left leg. It was then that she became aware of the breath she had been holding painfully within her lungs.

"You okay?" Chris asked. She could describe the emotion in his eyes only as genuine concern.

"I'm…fine," she spoke unsteadily. All that lay before her was tomato soup, though now it appeared to be spattered over her hands. She was quick to wipe it away, knowing somehow that it would only morph into something more sinister.

The visions had been expected, but she wondered how long they would persist. Every drop of blood brought her closer and closer to breaking the bubble of serenity she had surrounded herself with. Now was not the time to break down, and tears would help no one.

"Listen, I uh-" she began. "I don't think I'm going to be much use today. I'm still…a little groggy. I'll be at my apartment if anyone needs me."

Her attempts to slip out of the conversation before her absence was noted were thwarted before they had begun. She was barely halfway to her feet when a voice found its way to her.

"Hold up," Chris requested, almost choking on the little food that had found its way to his throat. "I'll drive you."

He sensed her desire to protest before the thought had even approached her mind.

"I drove you here," he reminded her. "There's no sense in you taking the bus back. Besides, Rebecca said you have a pretty bad concussion. If you're not feeling well you really shouldn't be on your own."

The excuse he offered was poorly founded, but she appreciated it nonetheless.

"Chris, you're not much better yourself," she laughed humourlessly. She hoped that he would persist with his offer. She truly did not want to be alone.

"Alright," he pretended to relent. "Let me drive you to the hospital. I'd feel much better about leaving you if I knew you were alright."

"I said I was, didn't I? But alright, take me to the hospital; get yourself looked over while we're there."

"No deal," he objected, finally on his feet. "I'm taking you home, no arguments."

Barry's deep chuckle broke through their playful argument.

"You're both as bad as each other," he laughed. "I'll find Rebecca, see how she's coping. I don't know if I should worry about the two of you falling into bed or bludgeoning each other to death. Just another day in S.T.A.R.S. I suppose."

Laughter met the choice words that Chris offered in response. For once Jill was enjoying the experience of not being the source or target of Chris's anger. While his worry was often annoying in the ways it manifested, she much preferred having him fuss over her than hounding her with accusations of insanity.

Sometimes she felt far too comfortable with her partner.

* * *

The tears had begun to flow the moment her palms hit the cafeteria door. That hellishly annoying voice chased her from corridor to corridor until she finally found the relative safety of the S.T.A.R.S. office.

Falling from her eyes with frightening velocity, tears spilled onto waiting hands. The floor rose up to meet her as she slid down the frame of the door, legs bending readily before her.

There was nothing that she could do to stem the flow. Even silently reciting her favoured medical textbook – a tactic that had proven successful prior to many stressful exams – failed to quash the emotions that surged forth.

Fear, anger, helplessness…everything she could name and more.

It was a strange and unnerving feeling, to be aware of one's emotions but completely lacking control over when and how they presented themselves.

It seemed woefully ironic that a career she had chosen to prove her strength and capability had reduced her to carefully hidden attacks of anxiety.

In the end, she chose to cry out her worries, and after several agonising minutes she felt the weight lift from her brow and once again breathing did not seem to be such a painstaking chore.

"You would think you're the only human in the world capable of hurting."

The kindliness had fallen from Richard's tone, mirroring the flesh that now barely covered many open wounds. His appearance had deteriorated severely in the last few hours, perhaps as his death continued to return to her in terrifying visions. Puncture wounds now riddled his torso, affording him the appearance of a severely abused chew toy. The blood left no stain, though his clothes withheld water and his lips had begun to pale. Little of his shirt remained against his torso, and less skin still became exposed. Several fingers had fallen from one hand, ripped carelessly rather than severed.

She found that she could not look upon him without the dangerous urge to vomit.

"What do you expect from me?" she screamed, though the sound came out as little more than a frantic gasp. "I'm not bulletproof! I'm not even a damn soldier, I'm a _child_! If I want to cry, I think I have the right, don't you?"

"Just as my life is my own, and I had the right to choose how it ended," he pointed out triumphantly. "You know that I have no regrets. So stop crying over something that would make me smile were I alive to appreciate it."

To hear the words in his voice felt as though her worries had been lifted for but a brief moment. She did not truly believe in what he voiced, but she clung to it in the hope that it would be enough to pull her through the moments she knew she was facing.

"What happened to you?" she asked. She was unsure if he was a ghost or a hallucination, and regardless of which were true she knew that it was equally stupid of her to attempt any form of conversation with him.

"Shark, I think," he shrugged, as though his wounds were mere inconveniences. "It all happened so fast. How is Jill?"

"She's fine," Rebecca answered with some annoyance. "Badly concussed, a few bruised ribs and minor flesh wounds that probably smart like hell but she's pushing on like nothing's wrong. She's stubborn and I don't know what the hell she is trying to prove."

Richard chuckled. Despite her harsh initiation into S.T.A.R.S., Rebecca was still a rookie and as such had not developed an understanding of her Alpha teammates…at least consciously.

"She's not trying to prove a thing," he smiled, seemingly knowing that she knew it herself deep down. Otherwise, how would he know? "I don't know how she does it, but she always keeps her emotions perfectly in check. Jill is the backbone of Alpha…without her level head the others would be all over the place. It's not that she doesn't feel pain or loss the way you do…she is simply better at hiding it. 'For the good of the team'. I'd wager you're not the only S.T.A.R.S. member crying herself to sleep."

The frown that appeared in response to his words was unwelcome. She felt that she did not have the right to judge the others when she knew so little about them. Of all the emotions that rioted within her heart and mind, her thoughts and feelings towards the only other female member of the team troubled her the most. She had no reason to dislike Jill, and truly she did not claim to harbour hatred for her. It was jealousy, mostly. Jealousy over her assertive attitude and level-headedness, over how she could diffuse any manner of tense situations with little more than a few calm words. After everything that had happened over the past eighteen hours, how could she carry on as though she had not been through a majorly traumatic experience?

In the end, every individual dealt with their emotions in the way that suited them best. Chris lashed out with admittedly frightening anger, Barry attempted to take charge of the situation, Brad turned tail and fled, and Jill neglected her own feelings to be the well of strength from which others drew their own.

Rebecca, on the other hand…

"What do you want from me?" she whispered.

"Nothing," he sighed. "But I know that you want closure…and somehow you're supposed to get it from me."

Her eyes fell to the floor for but a fraction of a second and when they lifted once again, the office was empty. Chaotic, yet empty.

"I wasn't your fault, Rebecca," Richard's voice echoed in her head.

Why could she not just believe him?

Hauling herself to her feet, she found that aches had settled in around the wounds that she had forgotten in the haze that had been the past few hours. Bruises, scrapes; nothing serious. Further weight trickled into her laden heart when she realised that Chris had suffered many injuries that had been meant for her. Sounds she had heard a second too late, shadows cast when her eyes were not where they should have been; Chris bore evidence of every mistake she had made.

She sidled along the row of desks, not quite knowing which belonged to whom but noting that one could easily tell with a simple guess. The desks all belonged to the Alpha team, with Joseph being kind enough to offer space at the end of his. From what she had learned, the small space had been more than enough for the group of close-knit friends.

Chris's desk was as messy as she had expected it to be, with various music CDs, imprinted with names of bands she had never heard of, piled haphazardly in one corner. A photograph had been crudely taped to the corner of his computer monitor; a young girl, not much older than Rebecca, with eyes that signalled a definite blood link to the marksman. Jill's seemed to be a poster image for order, though Chris's mess spilled over onto one end of its perfection. She also displayed a photograph proudly in a frame on the surface of her desk; a man who appeared to be in his early to mid thirties. The picture was old, perhaps over a decade. Once again, the shape and colour of his crystalline blue eyes signified that he was a relation to the woman she did not fully understand. It was no secret that Valentine's father was a con, currently serving time for grand larceny. If her estimations of the age of the man within the frame were correct, then he would be well into his forties at that current time; the perfect age to claim a daughter of twenty-three.

As she moved further on, her eyes fell to a photograph at the end of Joseph's desk. Being an ex-Bravo, Joseph had been known to offer his desk up to the entire team…an act of kindness he had come to regret when he found himself buried beneath junk that did not even belong to him. The man within the photograph was young, and definitely familiar. Only here he was not so tormented, not so savaged by the act that had ultimately claimed his life. Beside Richard stood a woman she assumed to be his fiancée. He had mentioned her on few occasions, but each time he had, his eyes had lit up in a way she had never seen before in a man of his age.

She fingered the frame cautiously, weighing her thoughts against those that arose moments later.

In an instant her mind was made up, and she peeled herself from the distracting, familiar environment she had sought in her sorrow.

* * *

_"A press statement released only moments ago confirms that S.T.A.R.S. Alpha team have returned safely from last night's emergency rescue. However, with this good news comes the knowledge of a tragedy. Only five members of the S.T.A.R.S. unit returned, with the remaining eight members believed to be dead. The survivors have been confirmed as Alpha team members Barry Burton, Christopher Redfield, Jill Valentine and Bradley Vickers, as well as the youngest member of Bravo team, eighteen-year-old medical prodigy Rebecca Chambers. This news follows-"_

_"-a girl who finds herself facing legendary horror villain Michael Myers in her new film Halloween H20, in theatres August 5th; Michelle Williams is with us later in the show."_

As applause broke through the presenter's speech, Chris placed the remote back onto Jill's low coffee table. The sudden change of channel pleased Jill; she could barely tolerate thoughts of their ordeal, let alone hear it described through the words of an uneducated reporter. Daytime chat shows were far less vile in comparison.

Grateful also was she of Chris's lingering presence in her apartment. Between the spells of dizziness and the sudden, debilitating attacks of skittish loneliness she did not quite know how she would cope if she were left to face her feelings. At least with Chris at her side she could force herself to put on a brave face and act as though she was not falling apart behind her smile.

Chris's anger seemed less potent once they had reached a relative safe distance from the station. Even so, he seemed more agitated than normal, more fired up that was usual even for his ill-tempered persona.

He remained seated quietly on the sofa, eyes glued to the television screen but not quite registering what he watched.

"Are you hungry?" she asked, out of the blue. "You...kind of left half your lunch."

"Not really," he replied. "Can't say I had that big an appetite to begin with."

There was tension in his voice, evident even in his posture. Before she was aware of her actions, she was behind the sofa, reaching for his broad shoulders. He flinched a little as her fingers made contact, easing once again when he realised her intentions. Knotted muscle eased beneath her touch, warmth burning the tips of her fingers as they pressed forcefully into muscle and flesh.

As suddenly as she had begun her ministrations, the movements of her healing hands ceased. The back of Chris's head flitted in and out of focus, bile rising steadily in her throat.

"Hey, why'd you stop?" Chris joked lightly, reaching up for a shaking hand. His fingers had barely touched her skin when she pulled away, desperate to sever the connection before her emotions were further challenged.

Chris missed her by a moment as he turned around, realising a split second later that she had already fumbled her way along the back of the sofa and deposited herself heavily onto the cushion to his side.

To her conflicting dismay and relief, he did not question her sudden lack of interest in comforting him. She could feel his eyes remain on her observantly, but chose to act as though she was none the wiser. A flurry of thoughts swirled within her; love, fear, loss, guilt. Suddenly they were not as easily separated as they had been moments before.

Tremors seized her hands and she found the effort of raising them to her temples too exhausting.

"Jill, talk to me," he urged suddenly, annoying her with the act of reaching for a hand.

What could she say? Thoughts circled her consciousness, never once actually touching upon it. She could not make sense of the maelstrom and feared speaking, lest she reveal what she was too afraid to let him know.

"I'm fah-" she began. A deep breath brought an end to her erroneous assumption. It was as though her vocal cords had momentarily slipped from her control. "I'm- No, I'm not. I don't...feel right."

She tested her grip against his hand, finding with much comfort that it was as strong as it should have been. At least her strength remained.

"I think... Can you drive me to the hospital?"

She could almost feel the blood pumping around the wound beneath her hairline, emphasising the injury she had all but forgotten about.

_The room was damp and dark, the air rife with the stench of death that she had become uncomfortably accustomed to. It occurred to her that she should have taken more caution in investigating such a strange circumstance. Richard was likely looking for her, and Chris and Rebecca were somewhere in the grounds. She was essentially backing herself into a corner; walking into circumstances she knew were suspicious without the aid of backup._

_Floorboards creaked beneath her feet, an ominous fire that burned on the heath bathing the interior of the cabin in an ominous display of shadow and light._

_She did not hear the movement to her side, did not even sense that she was not alone. By the time she registered the presence of another, her reaction came too late. Her head had barely risen when something collided forcefully and painfully with her skull, and the cabin was lost to an endless wash of black._

Chris obliged her request with no complaints. In fact, he offered more help than she believed herself to require, pulling her gently to her feet and offering unneeded support as she strode unsteadily towards the front door.

"I can manage," she insisted at long last, flinging his helpful hands aside. The thought of him half-carrying her to his car was humiliating. The injury was old, and she had struggled through many life or death moments following its infliction. She was sure that she could find her own way to a damn car.

"I was only trying to help," he interjected, wounded by her rebuffal. She was in no mood to satisfy her constant longing to be close to him with his sudden need to smother her with aid.

Despite the troublesome wound she had inflicted, Lisa Trevor held Jill's sympathy in a way the other victims had not. She could not imagine being torn from her family, subjected to horrific experimentation and forced into the state of an unstoppable monster. All because she had been the daughter of an artistic genius.

She retreated into her thoughts of the girl, safely away from Chris's unintentional influence.

It was not where she felt most comfortable, but rather where she felt most sane.

* * *

Barry was so sure he would beat a hole into the carpet the amount of times he found himself pacing the same hallways. The trouble with the R.P.D. building was that every damn corridor looked the same. The same tasteless décor, the same tacky ornaments. It reminded him in an uncomfortable way of the hallways he had found himself rushing through at the bidding of Albert Wesker.

Barry began to doubt that Rebecca had returned to the S.T.A.R.S. office, but could not find her anywhere else in the station. With options running out, he began to head to that dismal corner of the building, hoping that she had not chosen to flee.

"Burton."

He stopped so suddenly that his recently-filled stomach lurched. Recalling the last time he had heard that voice, it took every ounce of strength within him to turn to face the owner.

"Could I have a word?" Irons asked quietly, glancing nervously about the corridor. "In private?"

What could he do but oblige? Irons was not in the best of moods that day and he thought it best to do as the man said rather than risk the full extent of his petty wrath being brought down upon the others.

Fortunately it was an unused office that they stepped into, and not the stuffy confines of Irons's own.

The smug presence of superfluous artefacts was more than Barry was willing to tolerate at that moment.

"I have to ask..." Irons began tentatively, hand once again grooming his bush of a 'stache. "Assuming that what you reported of Wesker is true-"

"Every word of that report is truth, sir," Barry hissed as politely as he could. The conversation had barely started and already he was on his last nerve.

"Right, right," Irons mused thoughtfully. "Did he...mention anything of the R.P.D.? Anything that would...suggest corruption?"

His line of questioning piqued the interest of the S.T.A.R.S. member, though his sleep-deprived brain could not put a reason to the intrigue. Insane though it was, he chose to accept the assumption that Irons had perhaps given more consideration to their case and decided to offer what little help he could.

"No, sir," he replied honestly. Truth be told, Wesker had not spoken much of his employers or of others involved in the set-up. When considered alongside Chris and Jill's description of his behaviour in the moments preceding his death, he wondered if his allegiance had truly lain with Umbrella. Sure, the orders he had been following had been those of the corporation, but his ulterior motives appeared to be selfish. Had Umbrella intended for him to die with the others? Had Wesker uncovered this harsh truth and chosen to pre-empt his inevitable demise by stealing their research?

"No word of accomplices? Think, Burton; this could help your case."

"Wesker was careful in what he revealed," Barry offered. "I was not even aware that he worked for Umbrella until we discovered their involvement. He was...skilled. Truth be told, he revealed more in his last moments than he did in our many meetings. You should talk to Valentine and Redfield."

Iron grimaced, though the hint of a smile was apparent in his reaction. Barry knew that he would not follow up on their discussion. The man made no secret of his dislike of Redfield, and Valentine was the only female in the station that he had yet to make a move towards; a sure sign that part of him feared the woman. Irons was from the mold of man who found intelligence in a woman both threatening and unnatural. The arguments alone between Wesker and the Chief during the search for Chris's new partner told them all that he had been vehemently opposed to her hiring.

Brian Irons did not like that which he could not control.

"Sir, forgive me for asking, but why are you so interested in Captain Wesker? You were quick to throw our claims out earlier."

The hand finally fell from his upper lip, eyes hardening and jaw squaring as the amicably questioning mood was dropped.

"Just being sure I've covered all bases," he excused. "Press are clamouring for an official statement. Got a conference in ten minutes, need to get my details straight."

Barry scoffed inaudibly. Had he been in any other mood, he would have called Irons on his increasingly suspicious line of questioning. Fate, it would seem, was on the chief's side; worry for the younger member of the team and the awfully suffocating remnants of a sleepless night had blotted out the sound of every siren within his mind.

"As you were, Burton," Irons coughed as he pushed his heavy frame through the door.

Something didn't quite add up. A dull ache in the back of his mind pressed the issue further and he was forced to sate it with the promise to look into Irons' actions once time became an element he could spare. For now, there were more pressing concerns...

* * *

"Well, there appears to be no damage to bone structure."

The doctor's words brought with them the soothing rush of relief, but Jill did not react accordingly. Chris could barely contain his dismay, irritation continuing to fester beneath the bruising on his torso. When Jill had pleaded with him to see to his ribs whilst they were in the ER, he could not refuse. Her request came in a voice so despondent that his conscience did not allow for disagreement. What had followed was an hour of pokes, prods and x rays that forced a previously tolerable pain into new boundaries of agony. All to tell him what he had already known; two broken, one bruised, but nothing that required anything more than painkillers and rest.

"A minor scalp hematoma is present but there is no intercranial bleeding so it is of little cause for concern," the doctor continued, examining the wound once again. "The wound appears to be clean but hematomas are hotbeds for infection, so I'll set you off on a course of antibiotics just to be safe."

Neither of them found the need to point out that Rebecca had already written prescriptions for those who needed them.

"You don't appear to be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, so it's likely that the uneasiness you described is due to the concussion. However, if the hallucinations persist when the wound has healed, come straight to the ER."

"Is she going to be alright?" Chris asked impatiently. Too much describing of symptoms and little mention of her prospects.

"It is likely," the doctor answered swiftly, finally pulling the damned torch away from his patient's obedient gaze. "Scans were promising; there was no sign of permanent damage. Miss Valentine reported no amnesia, but the loss of consciousness is an issue. It is also possible that lack of sleep is exacerbating cognitive and emotional symptoms, so the circumstances make it quite difficult to grade the concussion. Nevertheless, I'd like to keep her in overnight for observation."

"No!" Jill protested suddenly, reaching for the arm of the doctor's white lab coat. "I'm not staying here."

She was resolute in her opinion and Chris agreed. Umbrella owned Raccoon General Hospital; it would be so easy to kidnap her in the night...or to disguise murder as an unfortunate turn of events. He would leave and return only to collect her body.

"Is there anyone staying with you at the moment?" the doctor asked, taken aback at her outburst but not overly shocked. It was obvious that stubborn patients were commonplace at this hospital. "Someone who can watch over you for the next seventy-two hours?"

"Yes," Chris insisted before he had given much thought to the idea. "I am...I can look after her."

The doctor looked from one partner to another and sighed in reluctant agreement.

"Very well," he decided. "Make sure that she is well rested and does not exert herself for the next few days. If you must take painkillers, take only paracetamol, and use ice against the wound. No alcohol until you are fully healed, and be careful not to hit your head again. Mr Redfield, I will provide you with appropriate literature, and should she display any of the listed symptoms, bring her back here immediately. I would recommend gently rousing her every two to three hours during sleep for the first night just to be on the safe side. She will require a check up within the next three days, but your team medic should be able to handle that. Also take care to regularly redress the wound."

With the assurance that they had no questions, Chris watched the doctor exit the examination room and turned to Jill once he was clear.

"You don't have to do this, you know," she pointed out weakly.

"Sure I do."

The idea of leaving her on her own in such a state was unthinkable and under no circumstances was he leaving her at the mercy of Umbrella.

She sought his warmth when he moved to her, the effects of the painkillers she had gulped down as soon as they had been offered beginning to kick in. It troubled him deeply that there was nothing he could do other than remain with her. He had been presented with a chance he had not been offered with the others, yet found himself completely and utterly helpless. She could die in her sleep, contract a nasty infection and succumb to blood poisoning, lose all sense and thought... So much could go wrong and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

It wasn't right, it wasn't fair and it sure as hell wasn't justified.

"Stop it," she ordered groggily. Her command was met with confusion. "Whatever you're worrying about, stop it. I can feel you tensing up."

He laughed quietly, overjoyed when it was met with a more feminine expression of amusement. Somehow, she always knew how to break the sour mood of an unfortunate moment.

"I'll stay as long as you need me," he was sure to let her know. Despite the kind gesture, his reasoning was not entirely selfless. Alone, he would only wind himself up into a rage. Alone, he would worry for her and fear that she would vanish in the night. His worry for the others trailed closely behind that for her, but he knew that the others would never let him in. Jill had provided him with a rare entrance into her emotions and he chose to burrow deeper whilst he could. She may not have known of his love for her, but he was adamant that she knew of how far he would go for her, and how valued she truly was. He had lost too many friends...he could not lose the best he had.

_"Please!" her voice came as a strangled cry that echoed off the walls. Something dragged along the tiles in the distance, slowly, ominously._

_"No!"_

_Her scream propelled him around the corner, weapon drawn. It transpired that he need not have prepared himself for a fight; he could not face the enemy before him._

_Forest Speyer; his closest friend within S.T.A.R.S., save for the woman he clung to in dry starvation. No, it could not have been Forest. Forest was dead; he had seen the body with his own eyes. This...creature. This creature was an abomination; an insult to his friend's memory. It was nothing of the man he had found himself deep in trouble with on many occasions._

_So why was it so hard for him to pull the trigger, to save the life of his partner?_

_Jill..._

_The sharp crack was accompanied by the sickening squelch of brain matter as it separated from Forest's skull. He teetered for a moment, held up only by Jill's bloodied hands, before she lowered him respectfully to the ground, eyes on Chris at every beat of his racing heart._

Forest...

It was Speyer's company that Chris would have sought in such circumstances. Had he survived alongside them he likely would have accompanied Chris on his vigil, cheering them in the dark aftermath. Like Joseph, Forest always saw the lighter side of any situation. Situations were only as bad as you believed them to be...that was his motto. Dependable, reliable, cheerful Forest. His death was such a waste. He could have been so much more.

Emotion formed a ball within Chris's throat, one which almost choked him with its potency. He wanted to vomit, wanted to cry, even wanted to laugh. Coldness seeped from the very centre of his chest, infesting the surrounding tissue until the pain at his ribs became masochistically welcome. So unfamiliar were these feelings, he forced them out in the form of a laboured breath. A breath that turned suddenly to a vehement tirade against the hospital and even against Jill's bruised scalp. He had not intended to rant, but found that he could not control his speech. Moments later, the ball diffused and the cold receded, and once again he was able to feel Jill's comforting grip on his arm.

"Calm down," she requested, barely with the breath to ask. "Please don't make a scene."

He focused on the warmth against his forearm and allowed himself to be lost for a moment to the beauty of her touch. It proved a more effective remedy than any medication ever had. No pain, no anger, no grief...only her.

"Thank you," she acknowledged; a soft tug to pull him from his blissful world. "I must be an awful burden right now."

"There you go again with the self-pity," he joked. Never in the two years he had known her had she shown expectance of anything other than earned respect from others. She was independent and self-sufficient, and did not appear used to leaning on others for support. She overestimated the strain she put on those close to her.

Chris wished that he could be more like her. Left to his own devices, he only wound himself up. He was used to being alone but that did not mean that he coped well with his issues. Jill had once mused that perhaps his internalising of problems was what inspired such a foul mood to brew inside such a compassionate man. As always, her attempt to analyse the riddles of his mind was met with a barrage of comebacks. But deep down, he had known that she was right. If he could only learn to open up and let others in then perhaps he would not be so easily provoked. As Claire loved to point out, mellow did not exist for Chris Redfield.

Even so, he held on to his anger and to his thirst for revenge. Because truth be told, it was all that kept him going these days.

**AN - Please review :)**


	3. I Was A Prayer

**Strength Through Wounding**

**AN - **I actually finished this chapter at the weekend, but couldn't upload it. So apologies for the wait, hopefully it was worth it :). As you probably noticed, the rating went up. I didn't know how far I'd go with this chapter but I think it warrants an M. If not, it will cover me for later violence, etc. Things will hopefully start picking up from here; more tension, a little bit of criminal activity... Chapter title is from a song by Alkaline Trio.

Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed so far...**Chaed, Daitsuke-kun, pezgirl1, KT324, C. Redfield 86, cjjs, Supermodel Sandwich, Kenshin13, tek, program-reaper, Ultimolu, Stardust4, xSummonerYunax **and **Sparkle Valentine.** I appreciate you taking the time to leave comments. Hope you enjoy the chapter.

**_Chapter Two - _**_I Was A Prayer_

_To a hopeless cause, I sold my soul  
A romantic plastic piece of shit you can mold  
Until I break into chokable pieces._

**_July 31, 1998. 7:00am._**

The heat pressed against the boundaries of bearability. Somehow, somewhere, she found the means to tolerate it. He was insatiable, demanding more of her than she knew how to give.

She could not have moved had she harboured such a ridiculously stupid wish; his body pinned her comfortably to the mattress, strong arms and even stronger thighs caging her. She barely knew where to hold, her damp skin slipping uselessly against his own save for where it counted. Her sight was not her own, neither was her voice and she could barely control her limited range of movements. All she wanted was to be closer to him, to have him inside her very mind and soul, and not merely her body.

"Jill..." His voice was a low groan in her ear.

A response failed her, so she settled instead for grasping his thick hair and thrusting her hips up to meet his. Her mouth fell further open, an assortment of noises and babbles she could not make sense of tumbling into the humid air of her bedroom. It was not long before his lips caught these words and kissed her fiercely, passionately and yet still lovingly. His hands fell to her hips, holding her body steady as he buried himself to the hilt in her warmth.

There was not an inch of her body that was not touched, caressed or kissed in a manner that sent her into sensory overload. Yet somehow, just when she thought she had reached the peak of her senses, something pushed her further still.

In a brave and almost futile attempt, she forced him over with her strength, switching positions in a move she deemed reckless and very possibly a waste of time. Chris simply smiled at her, sliding a hand teasingly from her abdomen to a breast, something sensational fluttering in the wake of his touch. She paused momentarily to gather her thoughts and breathe an unhindered breath. But such a foolish move would not be allowed. Apparantly sensing that she had little energy to carry on, he gripped her hips tightly and pushed up to meet her.

It was different somehow, the way he pressed against her. There was more to him than she was used to and a simple rotation of his hips was all it took for her body to convulse out of control in the midst of a cry that was almost a protest, sending her crashing down onto his slippery torso.

"I got you," he whispered, voice laden with gluttonous desire. She wished that she could understand the emotions that flourished beneath the physical pleasure. There was something there, something _wonderful_, but she was not granted a moment's reprieve to study it and to revel in its purity.

Then the pace changed. His mood softened and he held her tenderly, whispering how soft her flesh was, how sweet the taste of her skin...how he loved her more than anything.

Something registered as absurd in her mind, and for a moment she writhed within sheets, burning from a fever she could not control. A moment later, all she felt was Chris, moving gently beneath her, catching her doubt with soft kisses along her jaw. She felt entirely useless, paralysed by a warm sensation that pulsed through her body in waves, but she knew for certain that she never wanted to leave the safety and comfort of his arms.

Her eyes fluttered closed, lips parting breathlessly as she reached yet a higher peak.

Never...

...in a million...

...years...

A scream broke through her delirium, and suddenly she was alone, clad in her usual cotton pyjamas. It took a moment for her to register that the scream had been her own, and that the sheets beneath her were soaked through to the mattress. Her pyjamas were no better, the thin material of her cami clinging stubbornly to her skin.

"What the fuck?" she gasped, every nerve searching for the sensations that had been upon her a moment earlier.

The footsteps that thudded outside her bedroom door a moment later were most unwelcome. He did not even speak as he found his way onto her bed, reaching for her in the comforting manner he had every night they had shared a bed only for her to wake him with her restlessness.

She was quick to bat away the hands that slid over exposed skin, feeling the attention of every hungry receptor turn to that small area of warmth.

"Don't!" she warned carefully. But as always, Chris failed to take the hint and was soon reaching for her face, fingers sliding to the source of her recently-overcome concussion.

His shirtless visage did not elude her attention and she cursed the summer temperatures, thanking only that he had chosen not to sleep in the nude.

In an instant it all became too much. Before the raging signals within her body achieved their goal, she flung herself over the side of her bed and into the ensuite bathroom. Chris had been kind enough to repair the damage he had caused the first night of his stay, and so it remained the closest room to her that was capable of placing a lockable physical barrier between the body she longed for in that moment and the body she seemed to have lost all control over.

"Jill, are you alright?"

It seemed that it was the only words he spoke to her lately. What was once touching concern had swiftly become unwanted attention.

"I'm fine," she countered, as she always did. "Just a nightmare."

There was no movement beyond the pine. It had been days since a nightmare had forced a scream from her; a definite cause for concern. When he finally moved away, she felt her body relax. Had he finally taken the hint that his help was unneeded? Or had he recognised her screams as those of arousal and not terror?

She shuddered at the thought. There would be no facing him if that were the truth.

Shedding her damp bed clothes, she stepped beneath the showerhead, making sure that the temperature was as low as could be before turning on the water. The droplets fell painful and cold against her flushed skin, like jagged particles of ice onto sun-scorched sand. Slowly but surely, her heart rate slowed and the memories faded with the thin sheen of sweat that coated her body.

When she was finally satisfied that her mind was her own and was once again in control of every aspect of her physical being, she leaned against the cool tiles, shivering from the cold.

She knew from the gossip of the girls of the R.P.D. that had found their way into the bed of Chris Redfield that at least the physical aspects of her dream had hit pretty close to the mark. It was this knowledge that she found difficult to shake off. The love and the happiness that merely being in his presence brought was not an issue; she had come to terms with these emotions months earlier. But how could she face him now that her libido had caught on to what her heart already knew?

"I think I preferred the zombies," she groaned, finding that she longed for the nights she spent back amongst the creatures of the mansion.

The hallucinations had, for the most part, devolved merely into lucid dreams. She assumed that her concussion had confused the boundaries of reality and imagination and so had forced her dreams into her daily life. At least, she preferred to think of it that way. It assured her that she was not completely insane. Still, she often found herself succumbing to surroundings that for the briefest of moments appeared as real as the air she breathed. When it was so difficult to distinguish dreams from reality, she found it easy to tolerate these moments of brief insanity.

Chris had remained by her side as promised until her check up, sharing her bed for the first night and setting up camp on her bedroom floor the subsequent two so as not to disturb her prescribed rest. Once the pain had faded, the swelling had subsided and she was given the all clear by a surprisingly quiet Rebecca, she found that her heart sank at the knowledge that Chris would be returning to his own apartment. Luck, however, appeared to be on her side when a reckless bound from her bed the first morning she woke to find her world did not spin aggravated her tender ankle. Fearing that she would fall, stumble or otherwise injure herself, Chris insisted that he remain a further few days.

When her awkward limp was no more, they were both out of excuses. She did not ask him to leave and he made no attempts to vacate her guest bedroom. Truth be told, she no longer knew if it was fear of being alone that brought her to crave his company or the love that she found increasingly hard to deny. If the dream told her anything, it was that it was foolish for them to be in such close, constant proximity when they were both as wounded as they were. When clueless to a cure, humanity always seemed to turn to pleasures to disguise unwanted symptoms.

Soon, the water ran warm against her and she forced herself to wash the memories away before wrapping herself in a robe and stepping out to face the uncertain.

* * *

"Christopher? Christopher!"

Barry flinched with his friend. It was perhaps in his best interests not to question the latest rift in the complex relationship of the Redfield siblings, but he had surmised Claire's reasoning without much thought.

"Chris, will you just pick up the phone? I saw the news and- Well, I'm worried, alright? Just call me and let me know that you're alright and I'll stop harassing you."

"See what I mean?" Chris asked, turning off his cell and placing it deep inside the top drawer of his desk.

Barry was not one to interfere with volatile circumstances, but he saw an unfairness in Chris's treatment of his teenaged sister that the family man within could not tolerate. He would have scolded either one of his daughters for acting in such a way.

"Call her back," he advised. "You know she's not gonna stop buggin' you 'til you do."

The unfriendly glare he turned from told him what he could do with his advice. Barry sighed. He should have known better. The others may have taken steps towards forgiveness, but the act was beyond Chris. The anger that seemed to shadow him in his every moment took away his capacity for forgiveness, for reason and for understanding. He had thought that Jill's increased presence in the man's daily life would help dilute his temper, but it only seemed to have exacerbated it all.

'She must be a damn nightmare to live with,' he concluded.

"Where is Jill today?" he asked. Anything that would force a change in mood.

Chris sighed pointlessly and shrugged.

"Beats me," he replied. "She came in earlier but ran off as soon as I arrived. I think she's avoiding me but can't think why."

Barry grimaced. Jill was another enigma in the dark days of aftermath. He had never seen her so withdrawn and so skittish. She barely knew where she was any more. With the psychiatric evaluations Irons had forced them all into beginning soon after the press conference that had ended only in ridicule and humiliation, it was no surprise that she clamoured for an escape route. Surface checks turned up nothing against Umbrella, and deeper probing would have to be held off until wounds had adequately healed. For now, the office was their cell and it suffocated them as such.

"I just... Why do women have to be so fucking closed with everything?" Chris fumed. Barry did not question his rant and listened with an attentive ear. "They're all about feelings and shit, but when it comes to their own they clam up and there's no way in."

Flakes of varnished wood chipped away from the desk beneath Chris's fingernails. Frustration was evident in every tensed muscle, in every twitch of his dark scowl. Barry decided against pointing out that Chris was acting in the exact same way. He was not in the mood to handle the inevitably resulting fireworks.

"Try being married to one," he chortled. "It gets worse."

Kathy had remained schtum about her feelings towards the attention her husband received from both the townspeople and the press. She could barely walk to the convenience store without a microphone being suddenly and viciously thrust beneath her nose. The press knew no boundaries he was so sure that if they did not cease their invasive actions soon, his enraged wife would be teaching them the hard way.

He had never wanted such negative attention to fall on his family, but such was the price of fighting the good fight. He simply felt lucky that Kathy was on his side and had vowed to stand resolutely by him every step of the way.

But would she be so motivated if she knew of his betrayal?

"Maybe she's afraid of me?" Chris continued, oblivious to his friend's lack of attention. "But why? She has no reason. I'd never hurt her. Never."

He ranted to the weathered surface of his desk, seeming not to care whether or not anyone was listening to his words. Perhaps it was for the best that he did not know of the other man's inner turmoil? Barry never had been the type of man who could easily open up. It was a trait he shared with the young marksman, only not so influenced by youth and inexperience.

"How the hell am I supposed to help her if she won't even look at me?"

Barry knew how his companion felt, but did not know what to say to make him feel any better.

"Jill is a strong woman," he tried. "She can handle herself. You don't have to help her, Chris. Just give her some space and she'll come around on her own."

It was obvious that his answer was not pleasing. Chris Redfield often did not know when to drop something, and being told had been proven to rile him in the past. Barry understood his desire to help the quietly suffering Jill. They had arrived too late to help the others, too late to offer assistance of any kind. Now that they had the opportunity it was a given that they would seize it with both hands and, in Chris's case, stubbornly refuse to let it go.

There were no words that could express his regret over the betrayal they had suffered at his hands. His family may have meant the world to him, but that was no excuse for endangering the lives of his friends.

'Why am I still here?'

Kathy and the girls were at home, likely watching the television with curtains closed to avoid the baying press. He was torn between two poles of loyalty, between the family he had risked it all for and the friends that had suffered as a result. Kathy could not understand why he believed he owed so much to the others, and he found that on every occasion that she questioned his blind loyalty he could not answer with the truth.

"You know what?" Chris fumed. "Fuck it. I'm out of here."

This news came as a surprise; the younger S.T.A.R.S. members may have watched the ticking clock with the expectation of bored high school students, but none of them had ever clocked off early. Truth be told, Chris was always the one to remain after hours. Though as time passed, Barry had begun to wonder if this had less to do with his work ethic and more to do with the woman he would spent the overtime with. It was no wonder her reluctance to accept help had infuriated the man; any fool could see that they danced around deeply romantic feelings.

"Go home, Barry," Chris suggested as he shrugged on his jacket. "Go see Kathy."

While it pleased Barry that Chris could still find words to speak to him, he knew that returning to the good friends they had once been would take some time.

There was so much that needed to be said...and not just to Chris.

With both family and friends in mind, he obeyed without question.

* * *

Raccoon City was a contradiction in its own right. Rebecca often thought it appeared as though areas had been pulled from various cities across the United States and deposited smack bang in the middle of Michigan. Tall skyscrapers and urban filth met lush plant life and a relaxed atmosphere the likes of which she had never found in such a large city. Strangely enough, it was this aspect of Raccoon that she had fallen in love with.

The area she found herself in that afternoon was not far from the centre of town. The settings were semi-urban but still held a lingering scent of the chill that the city often brought to one's mind. It was an area favoured by the other S.T.A.R.S. members, for convenience, security and price. Rebecca, on the other hand, resided far away from the others, virtually on the other side of town. It had been a condition of her parents' permission to move to Raccoon that they be allowed to buy her an apartment in a respectable area of town. An area, it seemed, that was populated mainly by middle-class families. She could not drive and found the daily commute almost hellish so she was pleased to discover that Barry lived nearby and was more than willing to drive her to work every morning and back home again most evenings.

The apartment block before her was modern in build, but rustically weathered in keeping with the general feel of downtown Raccoon.

"Please be in, please be in," she repeated. "Sixth time lucky..."

To her delight, the intercom buzzed moments after she pressed on the call button.

"Hello?" The voice was warm and light, but also sad and wistful.

"Bridgette?" she called, surprised both that she had been blessed with an answer and had actually found the voice to speak. "Hi, my name is Rebecca Chambers, I-"

Her voice was cut off in an instant by a furious buzz that she barely recognised as the automatic release of the lock. Time stood still for the shortest of moments. So suddenly? She had at least expected to argue her case before being invited in.

In a flurry of movement, she pushed on the heavy obstacle and found that her feet carried her without much effort up to the second floor.

The door was open when she reached apartment 215, though she was initially reluctant to step inside without a welcome. Swallowing her anxiety, she stepped forward, making sure that the door closed safely behind her.

"Hello?" she tried, met only with silence. Boxes towered precariously against bare walls, the only furniture a large television and leather couch.

Suitcases blocked the entrance to what she assumed was the bedroom, S.T.A.R.S. paraphernalia falling from the hole of a badly beaten cardboard structure.

"Do you like Earl Grey?" a voice asked, startling her with its casual interruption of her observations. "It's all I have right now but I could pour you a glass of milk if you like."

Her fingers found the awaiting mug, gratefully accepting the beverage. Bridgette smiled at her mournfully, her eyes failing to reflect the happiness conveyed by her lightly-painted lips.

"Tea is fine," Rebecca assured her. "I didn't expect anything, to be honest."

Bridgette instructed her to sit, an unmistakeable eagerness in her voice not floating far above Rebecca's head.

"You're probably wondering who I am," she forced out, thought barely propelling her words.

Honey blonde hair swirled in waves as Bridgette shook her head enthusiastically. She was pretty, that much Rebecca could tell. Green eyes, full lips, curvy figure. In years, she appeared to be the same age as Jill. The same age Richard had been.

"Rebecca," she acknowledged sadly. "You're not quite what I had imagined. Much shorter, a lot prettier. Sorry, I... Richard. He spoke of you quite fondly."

Rebecca bowed her head, threatening the tears that pricked at her eyes. She had no right to shed them, not here, not now.

As her head rose, she caught the glimmer of the diamond at Bridgette's left hand. It seemed out of place on such a homely girl, but sparkled in such a way that it complimented her perfectly. Rebecca had only received a single payment of wages, but knew that the S.T.A.R.S. salary was nothing special. It must have taken months to save up for such a mesmerising ring.

"I'm sorry for your loss," the younger girl offered. It did not touch upon what needed to be said, but it was all that she could put into words.

Bridgette looked away, smiling sadly to herself.

"And I for yours," she spoke softly. "I fear you feel it more greatly at this moment than I do."

Suddenly, words were a lost cause. Unaware of what exactly had brought her to Bridgette, a woman widowed before her own wedding, Rebecca suddenly wished that she were safely in her apartment on the other side of the city.

As though the moment called for it, she suddenly became aware of a flash of red against the cream walls. No stain was left against the paint, though the man that leaned against it was barely recognisable from the blood that coated his savagely mangled form. Strips of the orange shirt hung loosely round his waist, the uncovered chest glistening with gore that barely covered a battered ribcage. An eye had been lost, as had an arm from the elbow down, and the crew-cut he had been teased about on many occasions was no longer complete. Enough flesh remained to hold the majority of his organs where they belonged, but the muscle of his legs had been almost completely stripped from the bone. He was a walking medical impossibility.

When he spoke, she could barely understand the words that were forced through severed vocal cords.

"Isn't she beautiful?" he asked, surprising her to find that his faceless gaze was not on her. "She tried to stop me from joining S.T.A.R.S., you know. Said it was too dangerous. I told her she was wrong. I wish just this time she had not been proven right."

"I...I have to know," Bridgette whispered, confirming Rebecca's suspicion that Richard was confined to her senses alone. "All these stories; I don't know what to make of them, what to believe."

She knew the question before the grieving woman could voice her curiosity. Tears spilled onto the glistening ring.

"How did it happen?"

"Tell her, Rebecca. Tell her the truth."

_It concerned her that the others had thrown aside the purpose of such a large, water-filled area after little more than light speculation. Little was visible beneath the surface of the murky water, but she was willing to believe that it must have run deep. The surface flowed at the level of her knees, flooding boosting the volume of the substance that steadily began to unnerve her._

_As was inevitable when stepping on wet metal, she slipped against the gangway, the vile water rising up to meet her. As luck would have it, she ceased her descent before her face connected with the grey pool. Hands gripped her securely, hauling her to her feet with great care._

_"Watch your step," Jill reminded her. Embarrassment forced out an apology, cheeks burning painfully as she realised that all eyes were on her._

_Chris and Barry moved on, hands suddenly at the railings to prevent a similar mishap. Richard offered a smile from a few paces behind Jill and it was enough to reassure her for now._

_"You should really let me take a look at that," she told the woman that ushered her forward, noticing once again the thick river of dried blood that ran from beneath her beret to the curve of her jaw. A collision powerful enough to draw blood likely would have left her concussed and sporting one hell of a migraine._

_"I'm fine," Jill reacted stubbornly. Rebecca turned from her sheepishly, moving further towards the men of Alpha._

_"Rebecca."_

_She did not turn around, only signalled that she was listening._

_"When we get to safety you can clean it up, okay?"_

_She sensed a smile in Jill's voice, and it forced one to her lips. Deep down she knew that the offer had merely been to make her feel less useless but she appreciated the sentiment and harboured genuine concern for what was potentially quite a serious injury._

_"Wow, you're admitting to injury," Richard laughed from yet further in the distance. "I'd make a joke about flying pigs, but they could actually be a possibility in this place."_

_Every survivor laughed at this, appreciating a welcome break in the otherwise dismal atmosphere._

_Rebecca found that her steps were steadier than before, and she felt confident enough to pick up speed, closing the gap between herself and the guys._

_She sensed a less welcome shift in the atmosphere moments later, every hair rising on her arms. The distinct feeling of being watched had been creeping up on her ever since they had stepped into the aqua ring, but now it threatened to touch upon her composure. She could sense the build up to an unknown crescendo; a feeling unsettling in its own right, but downright terrifying in current circumstances._

_"Jill, look out!"_

_Richard's voice sliced through the tune of the metaphorical orchestra in her mind, and she spun around suddenly, stumbling backwards into Chris as he not only turned, but made to rush past her._

_Suddenly, they were all on their backs, water spraying from the pool to the left of the gangway. Something large, sleek and riddled with festering wounds lunged through the air, jagged teeth bearing down on the other female._

_Chris's legs wrapped suddenly around Rebecca's midriff, catching her as she slid towards the edge of the splintered metal platform, water crushing in on all sides. Blood stained the water around her, shotgun sinking to the depths as the platform gave way._

_'Jill! No, no, no!'_

_She was suddenly pulled to her feet, dragged through the shallows and roughly taken into Barry's care as Chris dove beneath the surface. Jill's blue beret floated ominously towards her and Barry barely relinquished his grip as she reached out for it._

_All was calm and quiet, crimson water concealing Chris from view. Barry continued to hold her tight, barely maintaining his balance on the shaking frame. Richard... Richard was nowhere to be seen._

_The surface of the water broke and Chris appeared through the rippled waves, a slender arm wrapped loosely yet securely around his neck. With less care than he had shown in the past, he hauled Jill up the broken gangway, depositing her on the more stable section where Barry held the rookie._

_Rebecca pulled free from the Alpha's grasp to hastily but gently tap Jill's cheek with her fingertips. The blood had washed from her face, but no new wounds seemed to have appeared. After a few seconds she concluded that she had merely been winded, and pulled the beret gently over her head while she blinked at her surroundings._

_"Where's Richard?" she asked, turning to Chris. The expression that met her eyes forced her heart down into the pit of her stomach. Jill had not been wounded, she was not bleeding. The blood..._

_"Richard!" Jill cried out suddenly, jerking out of Rebecca's clinical hold and almost falling back to where she had only recently been recovered from._

_"Jill, don't!" Chris pleaded. He attempted to pull her back, to guide them all towards the door that lay mere metres away._

_"Richard!"_

_"Hold her back!" Rebecca barked. Her first order. It seemed surreal and a little bittersweet that it should come under such circumstances._

_Water sprayed up at them, a scream that did not belong to Jill stealing their attention with its painful intensity. Richard emerged from the spray, and suddenly there was no holding her back._

_Blood slopped thick and fast from his open mouth, one hand pushing down on the jaws that clamped around his waist, the other reaching instinctively forward._

_There was no stopping the girl in blue as she threw her body forward, grasping Richard's frantic hand. Rebecca was forced aside, making room for Barry to join in Chris's seemingly futile effort to keep her on the platform and out of the water. Even with Barry's arms at her shoulders and Chris's at her waist, the woman displayed amazing strength and resilience; but in this deadly game of tug-of-war, she did not stand a chance._

_Suddenly, they were thrown back onto the bending metal, Chris taking the most of Jill's weight. In the sudden rush of movement, Rebecca had difficulty finding her feet again._

_"Ah!"_

_Jill's deeply disturbed cry caught the attention of the others, but Rebecca wished in an instant that she had not turned. Richard's hand slipped from Jill's grasp, dropping into the water before them. As it sank steadily to meet the body that already been dragged to depths that were dizzying to consider, it left a crimson trail in its wake. The sickening spiral hypnotized the young medic, moments later dispersing in an almost artistic haze._

The silence that met her story was suffocating. Rebecca tugged at the collar of her shirt, shifting uncomfortably as a bead of sweat rolled down her calf. Bridgette had bowed her head the moment the story began, the thick waves of her hair hiding her expression in a rather clever display of grief.

"I'm so sorry," Rebecca choked. Should she reach for her hand? Offer her a crumpled tissue? "I don't expect you to believe me."

"I do." Bridgette's voice was tinged with sadness; tears wiped quickly from her rosy cheeks before she lifted her head and attempted a smile.

"It makes sense. What the...everything the reporters said. It didn't add up. I never thought that zombies and genetically engineered sharks would be the most logical conclusion."

Rebecca tried to laugh with her, but found that she could not. Bridgette had been waiting for the answers that Irons and the media had denied her. Closure came with a bitter taste, but it was better that she know than spend the rest of her life wondering.

"How is Jill?"

It seemed as though everyone was seeking the answer to this question. It was a natural reaction to feel a little annoyed.

"She's fine. Alive."

Several beads of liquid escaped through intertwined lashes. Bridgette set aside her teacup and brought a tissue to her eyes.

"Good," she breathed. "Then he died the way he would have wanted."

She laughed humourlessly, folding the tissue over and over in her hands.

"It doesn't help much, but... I'm proud of him. You should be, too."

Rebecca looked her in the eye, confused by the meaning of her words. Bridgette tilted her head to the side with another wide smile. Such a pleasant girl. She did not deserve to hurt the way she did.

"Richard always used to say I was good at reading people. It's not your fault, Rebecca. I don't understand your reasoning for believing so, but it's not true."

Something lifted with her words, something that had wrapped around her heart with icy tendrils and over the course of the past week had began to slowly and painfully crush all feeling from the battered organ.

"She never lies." Though his voice rang in her ears, she could not locate Richard within the small living room.

She stayed for a little while, exchanging memories of their mutual friend. Rebecca's input was limited to say the least, but what she learned far outweighed her shyness. Bridgette revealed her desire to leave Raccoon, having found living with the ghost of her relationship nigh on unbearable. She flew out in two days but made the promise to visit each of the survivors; after all, they were her friends as much as they were Richard's.

When Rebecca finally left with a cell phone number tucked within the fabrics of her purse, the sun hung low in the sky. She was aware of an uncomfortable build of pressure behind her eyes, pressing on each and every one of her senses. She pinched the bridge of her nose, squeezed shut her eyes, but nothing could force tears into existence. Relief crashed against her, pushing so forcefully against her ribcage that she raised a hand to her chest.

"Rebecca?"

The voice, to her surprise, was feminine.

"What are you doing here?"

Strangely enough, what her will alone had been unable to accomplish, Jill's voice provoked in a matter of seconds. She tried her best to hide her eyes but as usual nothing slipped past her teammate. Before she knew it, her palms were collecting tears.

There was no thought more humiliating to her than that of breaking down in front of Jill Valentine. Her weakness was displayed so pitifully in front of the one woman who was apparently immune to the concept. She waited for the laugh, for the scold and the icy demand to pull herself together.

But they never came.

"Hey," Jill's voice soothed as her arms found their way around her.

Rebecca's pride told her to move away, to shun the comfort she was offered, but she couldn't.

There was something about Jill's hold that drove away the moisture in her eyes. Something that did not judge or pity her. It was a welcome change to what she had been offered in the past and suddenly all the images she had built of her fellow survivor were shattered.

Forcing herself to wallow in well-deserved shame, she clung to her lithe form.

"It's okay," Jill murmured. She waited until Rebecca made the first move before pulling away. "Do you want to talk?"

She shook her head, and for once there was meaning in her response. Nothing she could say now would change anything. Bridgette's words would not sound the same in any other voice. She did not yet know if they would be enough to quell the tempest within.

All she could do was wait...and hope.

* * *

Teetering on the edge of a bar stool was not the way Chris Redfield liked to end the day. A round of beers with the guys at Jack's, or a greasy burger from Grill 13, but never alone, never this drunk.

His alcohol habits had calmed in the past few years, but he remained with the tolerance to drink a fair amount before he felt the effects. Even by his standards, he knew he had crossed the line. His vision swam, mind raced and it took him several attempts to locate his draught.

When stress set in, all Chris knew was to drink the pain away.

The bartender left him well alone. What his reasoning was, Chris did not know, nor did he care. There were many customers that night, several of which were propping up the bar solo. Women troubles, he guessed. It was always the same story.

He used to mock the foolish souls that let a woman steal their heart and drain their pride, but tonight he shared in their pain.

A chance meeting with Jill as he swiftly exited the R.P.D. building had turned an already sour mood bad. The refusal to look him in the eye was infuriating enough, but her awkward avoidance of his friendly chatter and constant movements away from him had proved more than mildly annoying. The worst part of it all was that she had given no reason for her avoidance. Was she afraid of him?

Pain had hit him hard the moment she brushed past him and had not faded since. It was a high price he paid for the enjoyment of many moments they had spent together under the same roof. Moments that further emphasised the depth of his feelings for her; the way she folded clean towels, the way she laughed at her favourite sitcom, the concentration displayed in her posture as she set about cooking an afternoon meal for them both. He loved it all, and feared that he would soon be forced out of their tentatively shared apartment.

If only he knew what he had done, then he could make it right...

"I'm back."

He felt his unexpected companion lift herself back onto the barstool to his right. For a moment he thought that she would topple from her own weight, which was admittedly not much.

"So...where were we?"

Sharpened nails scraped the bare skin against his biceps. Familiar tingles of pleasure flashed along his muscles momentarily. Her touch was insistent and almost viciously eager. There was no doubt about it what she expected from him should he choose to play along with her little game.

At that moment, he was more than willing.

"My place isn't far from here," she purred, edging her stool closer to his. Her knee came to rest between his thighs, its proximity to a certain area no coincidence. "We could...be there in ten minutes. Tops."

Her breath stung his lips, a distinctly unpleasant concoction of gin, rum and unless he was mistaken, blackcurrant. Even so, there was something so enticing about the maroon tint of her lip gloss, and the way she seemed desperate for his company. He could not focus adequately to discern the colour of her eyes, but knew that they were half lidded. She was offering him carnal comfort on a silver platter; how could he refuse?

There was nothing gentle about his ways as he pulled her to him, and she giggled enjoyment at his enthusiasm. Her breath tasted as foul as it smelled, her lips too thin, too desperate.

_"Thank you." Her words were accompanied with an appreciative smile. One that utilised the fullness of her lips to create a vision that sent her gratitude straight to the very centre of his heart._

Her hands groped limply at his chest, settling for the material of his shirt when they proved too numb to feel what lay beneath.

_He was amazed that she had succeeded in hauling him to his feet. Her grip was not as weak as he expected, and it appeared that those slender fingers were misleading. So expressive, yielding not even to his considerable weight._

The hair that brushed against his cheek was coarse and damaged, and was most unpleasant against his fingers.

_"What is this?"_

_She allowed him to reach up and test her newly-adopted hairstyle. The same natural deep chestnut colour, now ending at the level of her jaw. Her hair could have been any shade, any shape, any length, and he would still have found her immensely attractive. Despite this most important truth, he noted that this new cut emphasised everything that was beautiful about her._

Drunken though his fumbling was, Chris succeeded in separating himself from the girl that was now almost on his lap.

"I can't," he slurred. "I can't."

Her touch and her aggressive insistence touched on every base instinct, activating the most primitive areas of his brain. However, his heart beat furiously against the wave of lust that descended, overpowering his iron-clad will for the first time he could truly remember.

The woman was attractive, eager and her kiss left him wondering what else she was capable of. She was everything he had sought in a woman at this hour of the night, everything that would comfort him for a few short hours…but she wasn't Jill.

"Come on, Chris," she sighed, leaning back a few inches. "We've all got issues. Let me help you forget."

It seemed that he was no longer capable of entertaining such a thought. Had he succumbed to her advances, he knew that he would only think of her as his partner, believing it was Jill's gentle curves beneath him but knowing that they did not feel as they should. He would likely cry out the wrong name, and the act itself would prove enough to elevate his relationship with Jill to a whole new level of awkwardness. It would be good, but it would be meaningless.

What was once enough no longer sufficed.

"I can't," he repeated heavily.

The woman's reaction was not quite what he had expected.

"A woman, right?" she asked, not amused by the idea. "Hell of a stupid reason but I ain't gonna argue. Not after last time…"

She shuddered as she hopped from her barstool, legs buckling as heels slid against the floor. Chris did not care to watch her leave.

The ambience of the bar once again settled around him; idle chatter, laughter…

_"Still no word on-"_

His attention suddenly drawn to the television set above the bar, he failed to notice the void within his glass. His own face flashed alongside those of his teammates, footage of the press conference Irons had forced them to attend – and later regretted – once again displayed above a disbelieving headline.

Jill appeared moments later, her bruised face twisted in a pained expression as she flinched from the impact of a question – perhaps an accusation? – that had been thrown her way.

Two years ago he would not have noticed the flush of her cheeks, or the gentle pout of her lips; the way her eyes would magnify a smile. The simple fact that he had remained oblivious to her beauty for so long astounded him. True, she was not in the calibre of supermodels, but in her own right she was equally as attractive…at least, she was to his eyes.

A strange numb desperation settled in his ribcage. He had never had difficulty in approaching women. Admittedly, he had never experienced the depth of feeling that Jill invoked within him.

He had lost too many friends to count. Barry's loyalty was questionable at best, Rebecca had been with them for too short a time, and Brad had fallen far past the boundaries of betrayal. Jill was all that kept him anchored to sanity, all that was left of the camaraderie that he so loved about the S.T.A.R.S. unit. Yes, he had lost too many friends to count; and in a sick, sadistic way, he felt as though he were losing one more.

Slowly, the bartender ambled towards him.

"Fill me up."

* * *

The press had dissipated by the time Barry returned home. Nevertheless, the street remained devoid of inhabitants. It was not an unusual sight; not since the 'murders' began.

Kathy did not meet him at the door with her usual kiss and offer of a hot beverage. Even Polly and Moira were nowhere to be seen.

"Hello?"

His call was met a moment later by the vision of his wife that appeared in the living room doorway.

"I'm just in here," she said with a smile. "Let myself get behind on the chores again. The girls are at Paula's."

Barry grimaced unwillingly; a deviation from his normal behaviour that his wife picked up on in an instant. Between the hours he spent at work and his silence when he eventually returned home, he was amazed that she had not yet confronted him with awkward questions.

"Barry, what is it?" she asked impatiently. Her husband's closed mind and quiet heart had hung like a heavy shadow over their family. Their daughters had noticed his sullen attitude and though they were concerned for their father, they simply did not know how to react.

"Kathy…" his voice barely carried his words. "We need to talk."

She reacted to his admission only by clearing laundry from the sofa, switching the iron off at the wall and settling down onto the soft cushions to await what she assumed to be a confession.

Barry found joining her more difficult than was perhaps necessary. Reprieve was presented only in the form of his daughters' absence from the house. What would follow would likely not be pleasant and he did not wish to expose them to further turmoil.

"I haven't been completely honest with you," he confessed, holding her hands gently within his own. Kathy's eyes searched his bearded face, too impatient, it seemed, to wait for a verbal response.

"Then start now," she instructed, sympathetic but not overly so. "We miss you, Barry. All that time you spend locked in that office. There is no reason-"

"Kathy." He was resolute in his decision to come clean, but words would not manifest. The love of his family was all that kept him going; who knew what would happen if it were suddenly withdrawn?

"I am more to blame than you know," he choked. Kathy made to protest, but he held up a hand to silence her. "Wesker approached me not long after I separated from Jill. I knew before long that it was no coincidence we found our way to the mansion. He refused to tell me the full extent of his orders, but I knew that we were all expendable; perhaps even meant to die."

Kathy remained silent in confusion, and he could sense that she waited for him to finish before allowing herself to jump to conclusions.

"He wanted my help," Barry continued. "Something about finding keys. When I refused, going so far as to voice my intention to inform the other of his betrayal, he said that there were men here, at this house. He told me they had you and the girls, and they would kill you if I refused him."

Her grip on his hands tightened almost painfully. The agony he had felt the moment Wesker had revealed his 'leverage' reflected back at him from the depths of her blue eyes.

"The others couldn't know, he said. He wanted me to kill them if they became suspicious."

Suddenly, hands were pulled from his grasp. The expression within her eyes had changed; once sympathetic, now pleading. Pleading with him to tell her that he had refused, that he had not taken Wesker's threat to heart and followed his orders.

"I avoided them," he continued, voice strangled through tearless sorrow. "Kept my distance, just to be safe. It worked for a while, but…after a while, Jill became suspicious."

"Barry…" Kathy gasped suddenly. "Tell me…please tell me you didn't'."

"I had no choice!" he insisted, moisture now building around his lashes. "Jill has more brains than the rest of us put together. I knew that…_Wesker_ knew that. He wanted me to kill her, and if I didn't…he would send word back and one of the girls would die. I tried to avoid her, hoping that he wouldn't stumble across her and if he did she wouldn't be alone. But eventually, she found me…"

Kathy was suddenly gone from his side, her expression stubbornly hidden. He longed to hold her, but knew that she would only reject his advances. She was stronger than him most days, and today was no different.

"I was terrified," he forced himself to admit, knowing that his only chance of forgiveness was to continue. "I've known Jill for years, I couldn't- I thought if I finished it quickly it would be easier. She questioned me and…I pulled my gun on her. My actions were only half-hearted and when she moved to disarm me I didn't put up a fight. I couldn't confess to her, not even when I stared down the barrel of my own gun. If Wesker found out… We fought together after, and for a while I thought she had forgiven me…"

_"Jill."_

_"Just get out of here," she ordered. He could tell from her tone that she was torn between watching him walk away and forcing upon him the same fate as the monster she had moments before seen thrown off the side of the stone platform._

_She had not been the same since Richard's demise; while calm, cool and rational throughout the exploration of the mansion, she was now uncertain, angry and wounded and no longer cared who knew._

_"I'm sorry-"_

_"I know you are," she revealed, voice distorted by an uncharacteristic snarl. "Which is the only reason I haven't killed you myself."_

_She turned to face him, her face a picture of hurt and betrayal._

_"Go," she instructed again. "Before whoever is pulling your strings finds out that you spoke to me."_

_Her words should have comforted him, but their effect could be compared to a jagged whip against his soul. He did not want her help, or her sympathy. He had very almost killed her, yet she was offering him an escape._

_"Jill, you-"_

_"Get out of here!" she screamed, moving closer to the open stone coffin that separated them. "Get out before I accept the fact that our progress has been severely hampered by your efforts!"_

_In the two years since her appointment within S.T.A.R.S., the full brunt of Jill's anger had not once been exposed to the others. As he flinched from the impact of her words, Barry realised that there was nothing beautiful or structured with her fury. It was terrifying in its lack of her usually clarity and compassion, forcing his legs to carry him towards the steel frame of the cargo lift._

The rage of Jill Valentine was not something he was keen to experience again. Even Chris's frightening temper had nothing on her cold, calculated fury. He would wager that it was enough to stop even Wesker in his tracks.

"We met again in the labs," he continued in his explanation of his betrayal. "But not before Wesker had found me and told me he wanted Chris and Jill to be led to a room at the back of the experimental facilities. When I met up with the others again, I realised how close to freedom we were. It was clear that Jill had withheld the details of out altercation from the others. I was ready to forget his orders and run for freedom, hoping that I could get to you before anything could happen. Then…then we were attacked. Jill led the monsters away and saved our lives. Trouble was, she had run in the direction of Wesker's lab. Chris refused to leave without her, and...they found out about Wesker's involvement with Umbrella. Jill was in trouble and I couldn't let him go through with whatever it was he had planned for her. So I came clean…told Chris were Jill would likely be. He barely spoke to me after that, but at least we all escaped. Wesker was dead and they told me he confessed to lying about holding you hostage."

Kathy remained silent, shirking away his touch when he rose to gauge her reaction. There was so much more that he wanted to say, so many excuses he was prepared to offer. Nothing seemed appropriate, and the excuses were just that…excuses. They weren't truth, they did not reflect how he truly felt; deeply ashamed and unforgiving of his actions.

"How could you?" Kathy asked at long last in a voice that trembled for reasons that were not yet known to her husband. "Whether or not they are your friends, Barry, they are _people_! How could you risk their lives? How could-"

"I couldn't let you die!" he insisted. "Kathy, I love you. I'm not proud of what I did, but I couldn't- I couldn't stand by and let you die. It was a catch twenty-two; either way, I wouldn't have been able to live with myself."

"Of all the lowlife, despicable-" she began, words meaningless when the disgust was heard in her voice.

Suddenly, she cut herself off. Her sudden silence both concerned and confused a desperate Barry. Kathy's forgiveness was not easily doled out, but he had hoped that perhaps she would be willing to consider clemency in his case. Silence…he did not know what to make of silence. It was too full of possibilities; meanings that could twist any way and still settle on a conclusion that was far from expected. When expectation was not easily confirmed, it made an already distressing situation unbearable.

"Teach me how to shoot," she asked.

"I'm sorry?" Had he not heard her correctly?

"You're worried about us," she pointed out, her voice not exactly pleasant. It told him point blank that he would be sleeping on the sofa that night. "Teach me how to use a firearm and you won't have to stoop to levels so low next time we are threatened. I want you to know that I am just as capable of protecting us as you are."

Barry considered arguing, pointing out that he did not doubt her strength, both physical and emotional.

In the end, he chose to bow to her will. It may not call for her to trust him, but perhaps she was right; perhaps it would ease his mind.

* * *

Midnight was fast approaching and still there was no sign of her roommate. No phone call, no messages on her empty answering machine. An empty bed had met her brief search of the apartment, and she was unsure if the feeling that set in was worry or annoyance.

If it was annoyance then why did she remain awake, waiting impatiently in the silence for a sign of his wellbeing?

She was fraught with concern, remembering only his pained expression as she fled from him in the entrance hall of the police station. Still perturbed by the dream that had haunted her the night before, she had found his presence distressing. Distressing because 'haunting' was not quite the word she would have used to describe the dream. It was wish-fulfilling in the most Freudian sense of the concept.

Recalling her ex-boyfriend's educational words during their break-up several months previously, she found it increasingly difficult to deny the fact that she was in love with Chris. She had accepted the notion on many occasions, denying it almost immediately when inappropriate thoughts and painful longing set it. It was easier to claim that she did not wish to be the one his affections were showered upon than it was to tolerate the sting of unrequited love.

Even her insistence that Chris was wrong for her fell apart. While he had once been careless with his feelings and sometimes misogynistic in his affections, she had come to understand the reasoning behind his acting in such a way. Then, as time progressed and she saw the way he acted with the girlfriends he had taken in the time she had known him, every negative opinion she had of him disappeared. He was more likely to have his heart broken than to break that of someone else.

She reached for the flowers on her small dining table, pushing the slim vase out of mere boredom. It was a small touch she had added to her apartment in recent days in an admittedly failed attempt to ease the gloom. All they had provided was another shadow to twist and turn before her eyes. The quiet did little to chase away the chill that set upon her, and she closed her eyes as the hair on her neck rose ominously. There was not a soul behind her, yet her body sensed something closing in, reaching, fumbling-

A sudden scratch at the door caused her to jump almost out of her chair in fright. Small strokes; uneven circles carved around the metal of the lock. In an instant, she was on her feet, the firearm she kept by her side at all times gripped tightly with both hands.

She held her breath as she peered through the peep hole, tucking the weapon into the waistband of her jeans as she reached for the lock a moment later.

Chris swayed on the other side, arm outstretched as he manoeuvred his key through the air, not seeming to register that the lock was no longer where it should have been.

"Where the hell have you been?" Jill seethed. "I've been out of my mind with worry!"

She was answered only with a dubious shrug before he stumbled over the threshold, falling into her supportive hold a moment later.

"Whoa, steady," Jill urged, managing barely to kick the door behind her closed. "Damn, how much did you _drink_?"

He tried his best to stand on his own two feet, but seemed unable to master the rather simple act of balance. In the end, Jill allowed him to rest the majority of his weight on her shoulders, fearing for his injured ribs as she carried him through to the spare bedroom.

"At least you came home alone," she muttered to herself. "I suppose that's one fact I should be thankful for."

He grunted; a sure sign of annoyance. She truly was thankful for his lack of company. The sounds that would have no doubt travelled through her rather thin walls would have been too much to bear. She did not know what she would do with yet another tear-stained pillowcase. Crying over a man was not something she was accustomed to and was unpleasant on the rare occasions that it did happen.

Chris was able to sway more or less on the spot when she directed him towards his bed. Trying her best to detach her mind from her actions, she reached for the bottom of his T-shirt, pleased when he did not assume the obvious. Her efforts uncovered toned muscles, still bearing the mottled bruising of an abused ribcage. As she had known from his lack of shyness in the shared locker room, there was not a single hair on his chest or abdomen and the skin was as tanned as his arms. His Air Force dog tags hung as they always did around his neck; there was not a time she could recall when he did not wear them with pride. Her hands fell next to his belt, fingers deftly unbuckling it with skill he would have mocked were he in possession of all his faculties.

"Hey!" he spoke suddenly, making no effort to stop her but seeming a little too interested in her wrists, which he saw fit to wrap his fingers around. "At least ask first."

She laughed involuntarily, hysteria threatening to impede her progress. He had been drunk on many occasions, but only when she herself had been in a similar state of inebriation. It was an amusing sight to behold.

"Don't push your luck," she reminded him amicably yet sternly, careful that his boxers remained as they were when his jeans were pulled down.

He did not need to be asked to crawl beneath the covers, but as he lay amongst the linen he looked up at her wistfully, unspoken words evidently on the tip of his tongue.

Jill leaned down to pull the covers up to his chin, pausing a moment later when his fingers reached up to tuck fallen hair behind her ears. His thumb fell short of its goal, brushing tenderly against the soft skin of her cheek.

"You're beautiful," he slurred.

She pulled back unexpectedly, recoiling from the softness of his alcohol-laden voice. His words were like poison to her weakened heart.

"You should…get some sleep," she excused. Her feet could not carry her fast enough to the door.

"I would join you but I don't trust you to keep your hands to yourself," she joked as an afterthought. Anything to pretend that she had not taken his words in the way she had. If he remembered anything of this in the morning, at least he would not remember her smile at his compliment.

As she allowed the door to close behind her, she was sure that she heard a small voice mutter sadly to itself.

"Neither do I."

**AN - Please review :)**


	4. Criminal

**Strength Through Wounding**

**AN - **I finished this chapter a couple of days ago but...well, it was long. I tried to cut it in half but it didn't feel right and when I tried to cut it down the one part that could be condensed didn't work when I tried it. In the end I decided to just post the whole thing and hope you don't have too much of a problem with it. I'll try to keep next chapter shorter. Chris and Rebecca's discussion was supposed to be longer, but I've moved parts of that to next chapter (with a different character which actually works out better). I'm not entirely happy with this chapter (understatement) but it's a filler and when do they ever feel right? Anyway, chapter title is from a song by Disturbed. Hope you enjoy.

Another huge thank you to everyone who reviewed. **Sparkle Valentine, Kenshin13, Devil Rebel, tek, xSummonerYunax, KT324, **and **Ligadorra.** Once again I'm sorry I haven't replied to any reviews, I will try and find time, I promise!

**_Chapter Three_**_ – Criminal_

_"This suffering, it makes me think like a criminal."_

**_August 1, 1998. 8:30am_**

Something clawed at the inside of his skull. Something large, hairy and undeniably venomous. His stomach lurched at the mere thought of food, the muffled beating of his own heart loud enough to shatter bone.

Little memory remained of how exactly he had found himself in this situation. Truth be told, he was unsure where or even when he was. His brain allowed him to remember select moments only, and all were equally shameful. He could recall Jill's hands at an uncomfortably pleasurable level, her skin soft against the fingers that-

Just what exactly had his fingers been doing?

He groaned aloud, aware of a vague joke about keeping his hands to himself. The groan was half out of embarrassment and half out of shame. Jill was the last person he wanted to be on the receiving end of his sometimes lewd drunken behaviour.

Shuffling could be heard on the other side of the closed door and he knew that he could not remain hidden beneath the sheets forever. Gathering what little courage and energy he could find, he attempted to find his feet. The third try proved lucky, though his legs made it clear that they carried his weight reluctantly.

He viewed the world through a painful haze, finding the door with the greatest of effort. Whatever noise had been audible before had ceased and he began to pray that she had returned to her bedroom, allowing him a little more time to prepare an apologetic speech. But when he left the stuffy safety of Jill's guest bedroom, his eyes fell first on the woman at the table, leafing through the day's newspaper.

"Morning, sunshine," she chirped smugly, looking up from the Raccoon Times for a brief moment. There was something awkward about her speech; something forced that tugged on something within his chest.

"Morning," he groaned, his voice as dry as his throat. "'Least it's not 'afternoon'."

As expected, the attention she had agreed to loan him that day seemed to have expired and she made no sign of hearing his words.

"Jill…" he spoke. But what would he have said? He knew in his heart what words he would have truly loved to speak to her, but knew that they would get him nowhere. If she accepted his admission she would only have assumed that his feelings were born of the horror they had fought through. That, he knew, would hurt far more than her not knowing.

She must have detected a hint of emotion in his voice, because it was enough to draw her eyes to his expectantly.

"I…I'm sorry," he apologised sheepishly. "About last night."

"I've seen you drunk before, Chris," she replied, attention falling once again to the broadsheet.

"No, I mean…" He paused to lower himself into the chair opposite hers, heeding his weak mind's warning. "I can't remember much, but I didn't…I didn't come on to you, did I?"

Coming on to her was the least of his worries. Slowly, images of an embrace that was far from friendly drifted through his consciousness. They had to have belonged to a drunken dream, or even a thought, conjured up when his mind was not in a state to distinguish between wish and reality. After all, if they had slept together the atmosphere surely would have been different; awkward, rather than cold.

Suddenly, Jill found it impossible to keep a straight face. Chris became deeply confused by her unprovoked guffaws and thought for a moment about complaining when her head fell forward into a solitary hand and her shoulders began to shake.

"I'm…sorry," she choked, thumping her chest with a closed fist. "There was, uh, a little groping, but-"

His heart sank in an instant; he could feel the colour draining from his face.

"I'm joking," she admitted, lips curling into an unintentional smile. "You came in, I helped you to bed and that was it."

Chris decided not to voice his dismay at her rather cruel joke. Instead, he fell into an empty chair and reached for the water she had evidently not touched.

"You did call me beautiful," she announced, almost half-heartedly. Though her eyes had once again resumed scanning the newspaper he could tell that she was not absorbing the words, rather waiting to gauge his reaction.

His slip of the tongue sent shivers of embarrassment through his veins but he refused to let it show.

"_Must_ have been drunk then," he smiled. A soft kick beneath the table signalled her offense.

"Look, I'm sorry," he spoke quietly, wanting to hold her attention now that he had it. "Yesterday...I don't know what I did, but I'm sorry. I know I haven't been the most pleasant person to be around lately, but... Well, I just don't think I can handle any awkwardness on top of everything else."

Silence trickled into the space between them, paper rustling quietly as she folded the daily and cast it aside. If he was not mistaken, he witnessed a sheepish smile tug at the corner of her lips. Was an apology about to come forth? What was it that she felt the need to apologise for?

"You didn't do anything," she sighed. Her hair fell carelessly into her face and she was perhaps a little too quick to push it back into place. "I had...a weird dream. It freaked me out, that's all. I'm sorry I ended up taking it out on you, it's not your fault, it's just..."

If he thought that feelings were about to be brought to discussion, he was quickly disappointed. Her words trailed off, eyes locking with his in a move that said plainly "I will discuss this matter no further".

However, speech was not necessary. Though his mind currently floated in a painful dimension far from his physical being, he knew that it did not take much to send hellish echoes around their world. Dreams were no longer dreams, shadows had minds of their own and even a passing thought could manifest as nightmare. In the doldrums, nothing was ever as it seemed.

"Jill," he called softly through unsettling thoughts. "If my being here is making you feel uncomfortable, I can leave. Just tell me I've overstayed my welcome and I'll pack my bags..._bag."_

The look that answered his gentle probing could be described only as absurd.

"You can stay as long as you want," she assured him, voice perhaps more urging than had been intended. "It's nice to have someone here when I wake up. It feels...safer."

He lost her again in that moment, the familiar fog descending upon her. Uncertainty was not a trait she wore well. All he could think to do was to take a hand in his; a hand she was reluctant to leave in his warm grip.

"Rebecca called earlier," she told him, hand remaining as it was. "She wants us to go to the office. Something about a breakthrough."

Chris removed his hand, rubbing his forehead soothingly as he wrapped his hung-over mind around the concept of work on a Saturday. All his body felt fit to do was crawl back into bed and pray for a swift recovery. In his mind he knew that it was a selfish want; a breakthrough meant that finally they had something viable on Umbrella, something that may lead to closure.

"I'll tell her you're indisposed if you need rest," she offered. He knew that her concern was not completely due to sympathy; a foul hangover was enough to shorten anyone's fuse and Chris's temper was the last beast they wanted to provoke at such a time.

"No," he refused, irritation already setting in. "Just butter me some toast, will you? I'll go get cleaned up."

* * *

For such an important endeavour, Rebecca found herself completely unprepared. Hastily-scribbled notes, unintelligible diagrams; she was thankful that the preliminary plan made sense in her mind.

Barry was the first to arrive, appearing dishevelled and more troubled than usual. After an hour of waiting for the other members, she had almost given up on Chris and Jill's appearance at the last-minute meeting. A message left on Brad's answering machine - just in case - had gone unanswered, which had not been unexpected.

"Sorry we're late," Jill apologised when she finally appeared with Chris in tow. There was no doubting the reason for their overdue arrival; Chris wore the perturbed and helpless expression of one who had enjoyed themselves a little too much the previous night. Hair ungelled and skin pale and sickly; she found it hard to scrounge scraps of sympathy for him.

"Well, now that we're all here," she chirped. Even the tardiness of half the team failed to throw her from her self-constructed pedestal.

They all looked to her expectantly and her heart swelled with the undivided attention that was bestowed upon her. Though it often struck her as a little silly, she relished the feeling of standing before others and sharing knowledge, even if it was limited.

"I cross-checked the last of the names we collected and...I came up gold." The grin and giggle at the end of her announcement sparked a wave of excitement that passed through the small office. "Dr. Karen Anderson is head of the mycobacterial division of the Raccoon Health Institute. It was a pure _fluke_ that I came across her; her latest endeavour into immunology landed her in a medical journal I just happen to subscribe to. Anyway, the RHI is the public face of Umbrella's research, and admittedly the majority of its work is in the public health sector and is rather positive. However, it makes sense that some areas will overlap with their more sinister research."

"Karen Anderson," Jill thought aloud. "I recognise that name."

Rebecca nodded enthusiastically.

"She was the author of quite a few reports we found in the lab under the mansion," she explained. "I dug a little deeper into her activities and, uh-" She paused for a moment to adjust the collar of her T-shirt. "Admittedly, not all of this digging was entirely legal. But it did lead me to discover that an unknown source has been slipping her almost twice her registered salary yearly. Due to the infrequency of her actual hours at the RHI and Umbrella's lack of probing into her absences, I believe that this mysterious benefactor must be Umbrella themselves."

The amusement at her admission of criminal activities did not disperse as she had assumed it would and slowly, she felt her cheeks flush impetuously. The general buzz of pride was more noticeable to her caffeine-motivated mind and she suddenly regretted the hours she had spent at her computer rather than in bed.

"I, uh-" she tried, searching for her train of thought. "From what I could gather from the papers at the mansion, the T-virus was derived from another base virus. It seems that Umbrella had branched out into experimenting with the outcome of mutating other viruses and bacterium. Fortunately all research in this area seemed to hit a dead end, but Dr. Anderson had a personal interest in the interaction of mycobacterium with koinobiont parasitoids-"

"Rebecca," Chris groaned, head in hand. She could tell by the way his eyes refused to remain open that he was bored out of his mind. "Please get to the point."

Thrown off a little by his rejection of ideas she personally found fascinating, she swallowed the affront that rose in her throat and continued.

"She has been working with William Birkin," she continued, eyes on Chris at every word. "Birkin, from what I gather, worked closely with Wesker. Quite high up in the chain of command, if you get my drift. I happen to have Karen Anderson's home address, and I know that she is in Europe at a medical conference for the next few days. She lives only with her husband, who accompanied her."

"Which means that the house would be empty..."

All eyes turned to Jill, now lost in contemplative thought. Rebecca smiled, knowing that she could count on the questionable circumstances under which Jill had learnt her skills to guide her towards her point of view.

"Are you saying that we should break in to this woman's house?" Barry raged, such a concept unheard of to the generally law-abiding man.

Criminal activity was not a level Rebecca wished to stoop to, but she saw no other option, only a job that needed to be done and a means to an end. Either that or the excessive consumption of coffee had rewired her brain.

"It's unlikely that we will find anything we can use, and even if we did it would not be admissible as evidence," she acknowledged sadly. "But it's a start. All we can do right now is gather information. Destroy them from the inside out."

Barry appeared unconvinced, Chris unreadable, but Jill at least appeared to be giving thought to her proposal.

More than anything, she hoped that her sleepless night did not amount to nothing. It was the first time in a week that she had been able to look at the world with a clear mind and less pessimistic view. Richard had not returned since her conversation with Bridgette and though she was unsure if this meant that she was free of him entirely or simply offered reprieve, she welcomed the clarity of mind that his absence provided her with.

"Do you know what security she has?" Jill asked, locking eyes with her to show that she was serious. Rebecca told her that she did not know, eyes falling to her notes as she realised that her strength lay with the theory; not much thought had been given to how it was to be executed.

"I suppose it doesn't matter," Jill breathed. "I broke into my high school once without tripping the alarm. Home security systems are simple in comparison."

"You broke into your high school?" Chris asked, impressed by her admission.

"A teacher confiscated a bottle of Bourbon my friend smuggled into school," she defended. "He said I could have half if I helped him get it back."

Chris chuckled deeply.

"I never pictured you as a tearaway," he laughed. "Or a teen alcoholic."

"I let him have it all," she explained with a smile. "I lived for thrills, not the cheapening of them."

Rebecca smiled, unsure whether or not she was serious. She was never sure when it came to Jill; she would often utter jokes in the same voice that shaped a confession. Jill's childhood often seemed as complex as her own, only in a different way. Jill's parents had departed in her teens, Rebecca's had showered her with encouragement and praise; enough to make her wonder if their love was truly unconditional. They had both been forced to grow up far too fast, again under different circumstances. While Jill had emerged with hardened skin and a sharpened mind, Rebecca was left a nervous wreck, desperate to prove that she was more than a walking encyclopaedia.

"You have my vote," Jill spoke, shaking the frost from her thoughts. "I say we do it and we do it soon."

"Whatever," Chris grumbled, fingers sliding carelessly into his naturally flyaway hair. She took it to mean 'yes'.

Barry was more reluctant to show his support, looking upon his comrades with dismay.

"I think it's damn foolish," he growled. "And dangerous to boot. But alright, do what you gotta do."

Rebecca grinned widely, searching for the pint-out she was sure she had hidden amongst the crinkled notes.

* * *

"What do you think about this?" Chris asked quietly, leaning in uncomfortably close.

Jill glanced up at him, debating whether or not to 'accidentally' land a ketchup-smeared fry up his nose and hope he took the hint and backed off. A moment's thought was all that was needed to assure her that such an act would be incredibly childish.

"I think it's a good idea," she muttered back. "It's about time we got off our asses and actually did something productive."

He scoffed quietly at the idea and settled back into his plastic chair, poking at the salad that complimented his burger with a fork. She was thankful for the improved distance, but his dejected posture worried her. Now that the hangover had begun to fade, she could see that the Chris she had left in the R.P.D. the previous afternoon remained beneath the physical discomfort. His fluctuating moods had become a cause for concern, but she never pressed him for answers to any of the questions that plagued her. Questions were provocation, and that was the last thing he needed right now. All she felt able to do was sit back and hope he did not burn himself out too quickly.

Dreams had been less of an issue the previous night. Thanks to her worried mind, she found herself back in the main hall of the mansion, frantic in the realisation that her partner had not made it to the mansion at her side. Part of her missed the thought of his touch; part of her felt ashamed that she would live vicariously through dreams of her best friend. Because that is what he was, and what he would always be...her best friend.

"How are you holding up?" she asked, adopting what she hoped was a sympathetic expression. It was a question she should have asked many days ago, a duty her heart bound her to.

Chris seemed surprised to hear the words, but smiled weakly in response.

"Same as always," he grinned. She failed to see this admission as one of a sound mind; Chris was a surprisingly troubled man for an individual of such popularity. He always took on more than he could handle and she was amazed that he had not collapsed beneath the weight of some self-imposed burden or another.

"I think we need a movie night," she announced suddenly, coughing to disguise her intent. "You know, just like old times. Only..."

Only without the others.

It was a dark thought to ponder, and one that brought the truth closer still to her heart. She missed them, she missed them all. Richard's smile, Joseph's laugh, the way Forest could work a dirty joke into any conversation. Kenneth's warmth seemed like a bitter memory to her now, and she found herself foolishly longing for the hot chocolates he would deliver to their car during any late-night winter stakeout that landed them close to his apartment. She had felt warmth when she held him in his last moments, but of a more morbid mold. The fear in his eyes still haunted her, still pulled her to the brink of her sanity.

_"Stay with me," she begged hopelessly. "Stay with me."_

_Thick servings of blood slithered across the click surface of her glove, escaping despite the pressure she applied. Strangled gasps seemed to emanate from the hideous wound; his trachea appeared to have been ripped clean open. Truly, there was no hope for him._

_Barry knelt at his side, fingers to his wrist to detect a fading pulse._

_The eyes that met hers begged for salvation, begged for rescue. He did not want to die; she could _feel_ the terror in the intensity of his gaze._

_"Ken..." she choked, pleading as his body convulsed, breath rasping until finally...he was gone._

Something peculiar gathered behind her nose, lips trembling ominously. She had known that her breaking point was drawing ever nearer, but had hoped, prayed and begged that it would not present itself when she was in the presence of her partner.

Desperately, she choked it all back, a response that manifested itself physically as a retch-like motion that caught Chris's attention.

"Hey," he whispered, reaching for her shoulder. The moment his fingers made contact, the emotion retreated into the folds of her mind.

"You okay?"

She nodded uncertainly, focusing on the hand that rubbed her upper arm reassuringly before gripping her shoulder tightly one final time. Before the hand could disappear, she reached for it, taking it in her own and bringing it to her lips. They did not touch his skin intentionally, landing against his thumb as she held his hand to her cheek. Neither of them seemed to notice this intimate contact, and she breathed in his warm scent, relishing the comfort that she found in it; conflicting tobacco and cleanliness, and that masculine something she could never describe that always reminded her of him.

After a moment's indulgence, she lowered his hand to the table and muttered a quick apology. It seemed strange that he should be the anchor that kept her as sane as she pretended was. Quite often she found herself wondering just what state she would have been in had he not made it through at her side. Certainly she would have faltered long before now? Or would she have even felt a thing, the grief of losing her best friend too potent to allow coherent thought?

"A movie night would be good," Chris spoke suddenly, his voice slicing comfortably through her thoughts. "A chick-flick, maybe? Something I can make fun of."

She laughed, appreciating the effort that he made. Even the smallest sacrifice seemed like a huge loss these days.

His smile softened her hard heart and for a moment, everything was as it had been a fortnight ago. It was a moment not often found in the chaos their lives had become and she was not sure how to truly appreciate it.

A few short seconds later, Rebecca found the empty chair beside her, arms once again laden with notebooks and various slips of paper.

Jill contemplated for a moment quietly asking the younger girl how she felt, memories of the previous evening still fresh in her mind. It was by pure coincidence that they met; rather than bask in the awkward silence that a ride home with Chris would provide, she had chosen to walk the relatively short distance to her apartment block. Who was to know that the young rookie would be waiting outside of Richard's building?

Rebecca had provided no reason for her tears, and Jill had not probed; they all had their reasons to cry, many of which were their own. She did not think it appropriate to force a confession from her when she herself kept so much hidden from the others. Sometimes all you could give someone was space.

"I figured if you're all up for it we could do this tonight," Rebecca enthused, addressing Jill.

Strange enthusiasm gripped her, excitement bubbling beneath the surface of her skin. Jill had only ever used the skills passed on by her father as a means of recreation; breaking into her old high school or the local swimming pool after hours. Dick had urged his daughter upon his arrest to refrain from using them for more sinister means, and she, for the most part, had abided by this rule. Now she was presented with the opportunity to use them for something _meaningful_.

"Tonight?" Chris echoed in disbelief. "Rebecca, things like this they...they need planning. We don't-"

"We do," she countered, eyes glistening with mischief that seemed out of place on a usually calm and dedicated girl. "It's simple, really. Her security system is rather basic; one circuit for the entire house. All we need to do is to temporarily disable that circuit, Jill can break through the locks and then we're in."

"What about dogs?" Jill asked. Somehow she didn't think she could face another canine, decaying or not.

"No pets," Rebecca smiled. "All we need to do is find the study, hack into her computer and-"

It was here that the flaw in Rebecca's otherwise airtight plan was found.

"Rebecca." Jill was careful to keep her voice low and gentle. "My knowledge of computers is limited, Chris can barely think right now and Barry is digitally illiterate. Getting in is one thing, but we won't know what to do when we get there!"

The rookie's face fell as she tried to think of an adequate response. Jill could tell from her expression that her plan had amounted to breaking in and hoping for the best. Was it worth executing such a risky operation when there was virtually no chance of success? Even the thrill seeker within her failed to see a possible benefit.

A deep breath was inhaled as Rebecca seemed to come to a reasonable conclusion, and her head rose slowly. Before she could speak, her eyes locked on a point somewhere out of Jill's field of vision and light suddenly appeared in her eyes.

"Sorry I'm late," spoke a quiet yet familiar voice. Jill could virtually hear the cogs of her mind whirring as she tried to accept something that felt so out of place.

Brad bit nervously on his bottom lip, a more sheepish expression she had never seen before. He wore his S.T.A.R.S. uniform, as he always did, and held himself with resigned guilt. While the others had not-so-politely refused the two weeks' leave Irons had offered them - presumably as a means of getting them out of his thinning hair - Brad had been eager to accept this dubious offer.

"The hell are you doing here?" Chris asked with a hand to his head, as though the mere effort of addressing the man caused him considerable pain.

"I, uh- I got your message," Brad told Rebecca, deeming her expression the friendliest of the three. "From the sounds of things, I think you need my help."

"Trust me, that's the last thing we need right now," Chris groaned.

Jill cleared her throat uncomfortably. She was no more a fan of the pilot than Chris was at that moment, but she recognised that he was perhaps their only option to successfully retrieve anything of use from the researcher's house. A little voice whispered to her that perhaps she should not be so harsh on him; after all, his cowardly antics had led them to the mansion, and to Rebecca. Truly, she knew that she would not have wished anything different; the others would have died regardless of whether or not they had entered the mansion. She had made moves towards forgiving Barry, surely she owed the same to Brad?

Clinging to this iota of understanding, she turned to her teammate.

"Do you think you could hack into her computer, maybe find something of use?" she asked.

Brad seemed taken aback that she had addressed him at all, never the less in such a neutral - perhaps even hopeful - manner.

"Y-yes," he stammered, partially from suddenly-suppressed excitement. "Well, maybe. If there is something to be found, I'll find it. Decoding may be a problem but I can get you the data, sure."

She did not understand his eagerness, and assumed that it was his way of making amends. He had apologised profusely for abandoning them; this was all he had left to prove that he was still part of the team.

His skills were unquestionable, that much she knew. As dubious as her own, they had proven useful on many occasions in the past.

Jill stared him down, waiting for even a minute falter in his expression. Had Umbrella got to him? Were they walking into a trap?

"This is bullshit," Chris spat, evidently reading her expression. "Why the hell are you helping us? Last week you said you wanted nothing to do with this. Said it 'wasn't worth dying for'."

Brad drew in a shaky breath, ready to defend himself for what was perhaps the first time in his life.

"It isn't," he confirmed. "But _they_ are. I...I've had time to think and...it's what they would have done if _we_ had died out there. When I saw that...that _thing_ rip Joseph apart...I panicked, and I've been panicking ever since. You've all been good friends to me and it's about time I repaid that favour. Even if it is a little late..."

Jill could tell that he had been rehearsing these words, and suddenly realised how difficult it must have been for him to simply sit there. She had never tolerated cowardice, had never been able to understand it, but now...now that she had felt true _fear_, she knew how it felt to want to run and never look back. Brad had a good heart beneath the cowardice; he came back for them once before, and here he was again. She had never before had reason to be afraid, but now she did, now they all did.

"Can you be ready for tonight?" she asked.

"The _fuck_?" Chris demanded suddenly, grunting quietly in discomfort as he leaned suddenly forward. "Of all your stupid ideas, Jill-"

"I can't even _begin_ to describe how bad a time this is to insult me," she warned, rounding on him before he allowed his anger to control his words.

It occurred to her that her words may have only proved to exacerbate his anger, but as long as he kept it to himself she could not care lass.

"Yes," Brad answered hastily. It seemed that Chris's company provoked a different kind of fear within him.

"Then we move tonight."

* * *

Chris had never been so angry that he found himself muttering beneath his breath, but it appeared that today was a day of many firsts. All the painkillers in the S.T.A.R.S. office failed to fight back against his hangover and to top it all off, his ribs hurt like holy hell. In his rush to get ready that morning he had failed to take the prescribed painkillers and was paying for it dearly after his sudden start in the cafeteria.

"So it's settled?"

He raised an eyebrow at Rebecca. Of course it wasn't fucking settled. Not a single aspect of this plan rode well with him.

"Alright." Whatever had been keeping her smiling during the earlier parts of the morning had begun to wear off in a slightly distressing manner. "We will all meet back here at ten o'clock. Brad, make sure you are prepared. Jill, have all your lock picking...things. Chris, just bring some coffee and try to sleep off your hangover; we're on comms."

This last detail hit him hard, paining him more than his head and ribs combined.

"Wait a minute," he spluttered. "Comms?"

Rebecca sighed heavily, tilting her head to an angled that emphasised the bags beneath her eyes. Her lips twisted morosely, something unsettling gripping her for the briefest of moments.

"You haven't been listening to a word we've said, have you?" Jill stated, arms crossed tensely across her chest. Somehow, since Brad's arrival, she had involved herself deeply in Rebecca's original plan, almost to the point of taking over entirely.

"The less people we send in the better," Rebecca explained. "Brad will need to be on the front line, so to speak, because he's the only one of us capable of hacking into her computer. We need Jill beside him thanks to her...expertise. Barry will drive, we will stay here and-"

"No way," he protested staunchly. "I'm going in."

"Chris, be realistic," Jill sighed. "You're injured. We can't sign out an R.P.D. van and we need someone on comms in case something goes wrong."

"We're partners," he reminded her. "If you go, I'm going too."

The idea of leaving her with a man who had left them all for dead sickened him in the worst possible way. If events took a turn for the worst, she would be at the mercy of Umbrella and he would be halfway across the city, unable to do a damn thing.

Jill raised an unsteady hand to her forehead.

"Chris, please," she begged. "Don't fight this."

He knew that it was less about his injury than it was about his temper. Even so, something in her voice caught the edges of his heart and he sighed in resignation, despite his entire being protesting against the decision. He had always believed that he would do anything for her; finally, there was proof.

Her plea effectively ended the discussion and the others began to file slowly out of the room, desperate to escape before an eruption even he could feel closing in. Even in the hand that softly gripped his shoulder in an affective move that told him "this isn't about you...but thank you", failed to strengthen the chains that bound the demon within. He cracked his knuckles, breathed deeply; anything that would help.

Soon, he was alone with the Alpha pilot, watching him thoughtfully as he gathered scattered papers in a haste to leave.

What _was_ his motive? Had he truly had a sudden attack of conscience? Or had he turned to the Barry Burton school of loyalty? After all, it does not take much to buy out a coward.

Brad straightened the papers at the edge of Rebecca's desk, slipping quietly into his jacket as Chris rose to his feet, unsure of what he intended.

If Umbrella were behind his return, he would no doubt attempt to pull something that night. After increased time in her presence, Chris could see that Jill was more fragile that she let on, hiding something behind carefully erected and attentively maintained walls. He would have usually not worried so about her ability to take care of herself, but even the slightest sign of weakness would give any possible traitor an in. A slight slip in concentration would see her dead...or worse. She needed someone covering her back, not a coward who only cared about his own.

"Hey Brad," he spoke calmly, which perhaps was more unnerving to the pilot than his usual tone would have been.

"Chris," he breathed in reply. He did not seem to know what to do with himself. "Look, I'm sorry I-"

His limbs were out of his control, his mind locked in a desperate frenzy of conflicting emotions. Before he knew he had even moved, Brad was pinned to the closed door, a fistful of his shirt pressing to his throat.

"You listen to me," Chris growled, disgust dripping from every syllable. Brad squirmed against his hold but despite the decade gap between the two, it was obvious who boasted the greatest strength. The fear in his eyes fed the animal within, and some sick part of his psyche enjoyed watching this pathetic man quiver, completely at his mercy.

"I don't know why you came back," he continued, the distance between them so minimal that he could smell the fearful scent of sweat on the man's skin. "I don't know what you're playing at, but you better listen carefully and heed my words. If something goes down tonight, I'm coming for you, do you understand? I will rip you apart. And if you flake out, if _anything_ happens to her...I will _destroy_ you."

"C-Chris," Brad gasped, clawing at the clenched fist.

His lips twisted at the panic with which his name was spoken. Brad was terrified, that much was certain. From this moment on, everything that happened happened on _his_ terms. For once, he held in his hands something that was completely and utterly under his control...and he found it difficult to relinquish his grip on this blissful moment.

"Forget about your own ass," he seethed. "'Cause I'll kick it anyway. Cover hers. If-"

Venomous threats suddenly caught in his throat, dissolved into something painful. Something wound tightly around his heart, consuming him with an ache he had not felt since-

_The scream caught all three men off guard. It was masculine, it was afraid._

_"That was Joseph."_

_Under normal circumstances, he would have appointed Barry with the title 'Captain Obvious', but something did not sit well with him. Gunshots rang out seconds later; a Beretta._

_Joseph carried a shotgun._

_Another strangled cry dragged out painfully across the silence and his feet suddenly began to move of their own accord._

_"Redfield, get back here. That's an order!"_

_Wesker's words bounced ignorantly off his closed mind. Joseph was in trouble, and Jill too. A man that had saved his neck many times and a woman who had threatened to wring it many more. More than that, they were friends. Friends in trouble, friends possibly dying._

_Dying...no. He could not consider that word._

_He stopped a little shy of the clearing, unable to continue no matter how fiercely he tried. There were no more screams, no more gunshots. Only clicks, only a mangled corpse upon which some variation of wolf feasted. It tore visciously at the flesh, ripping it clean from the bone. Spatters of blood and chunks of undigested meat landed on a red bandana, on blue eyes that were too empty and cold to be those of his good friend._

_But somehow, he knew they were. He did not want to believe it, willed himself not to feel it...but it was true._

_Suddenly, the_ _creature looked up, found the other S.T.A.R.S. member. Her gun clicked uselessly, legs moving aimlessly backwards, stumbling over a log she had not anticipated. The creature moved, bounded with morbid grace towards her. Arms rose above her head, accepting the inevitable._

_The creature fell. Chris was unaware that he had even fired his own weapon, knowing only that he ran to her, hooked an arm beneath hers and hauled her to her feet, pushed her in any direction but the one he had came from. All the while, he tried to forget the glaze of Joseph's eyes, and the shock that had gripped his eternally composed partner...the shock that had almost taken her life._

His grip loosened exponentially, allowing Brad to slip into the safety of the wide open office, speechless in his fear. Chris could not care that he had literally slipped through his fingers. His energy became devoted entirely to chasing the chill from his bones and the nausea from his throat.

Why did he _feel_ like this? It was unusual, unfamiliar and so very unwelcome. The world became clearer yet more distant, every nerve activated and every sensation amplified. He could feel adrenaline running through his veins but its effect was not quite what he was used to.

The thought of losing her, as unrealistic as it may be... In that moment he was sure that it was killing him.

"You listen to me through the comm link," he instructed, calm this time but not entirely composed, "and you do everything I tell you to."

With that, he left. Left to breathe heavily into the empty corridor, the weight of unfamiliar feelings and helplessness crushing in. He could barely breathe, could barely think. Part of him wanted to stroll back into the office and pummel the living daylights out of his scapegoat. In the end, emotion broke free and he cried out, slamming his fist into a wooden window frame. The damp wood bent against the weight, his knuckles stinging delightfully. It was completely out of his control but so refreshing.

Lost for a moment in a clear mind, he chose to obey Rebecca's instructions. He would need a hell of a lot of sleep to prepare him for that night.

* * *

**_August 2, 1998. 2:04am_**

"Are you clear?"

Jill rolled her eyes sarcastically.

"Rebecca, with the amount of shrubbery here, I doubt even the CIA would see us," she whispered into her mouthpiece, adding a hasty "over" to add a little professionalism to her sarcasm.

Brad smiled nervously, as on edge as he had been upon leaving. She did not understand the loss of the basic bravery he had displayed upon volunteering to help; she had never seen the man such a nervous wreck. Had it been any other time, under any other circumstances, she would have questioned his skittish demeanour. But now was not the time. She only wished that he would not seem so afraid of her; a clumsy trip over a sprinkler head had sent him into a blind panic as he rushed to help her to her feet.

Shrugging off the peculiar suspicion, she focused her attention on the lock before her. It was a little more complicated than she had expected, and she had certainly not anticipated three separate locks to await her. Whoever Dr. Anderson was, she appeared a little neurotic. Who else nailed a 'Beware the Dog' sign to their gate when they owned no pets?

'Umbrella sure know how to select their staff.'

"We're in," she whispered into her mouth piece, allowing Brad to move ahead of her before slipping into the house and quietly closing the front door behind them.

For the funds that Umbrella had been pouring into her bank account, Karen Anderson's house was fairly basic. Clean, simple, homely. Jill recognised that it was likely just a face; Umbrella employees tended to spend extended amounts of time within the laboratories themselves.

"Be careful," Chris urged, his tone closer to an order than advice. Her eyes rolled of their own accord, brushing off her partner's voice with little thought.

"The study should be on the first floor," Rebecca spoke.

Jill looked to Brad, who nodded and began to ascend the carpeted staircase. Fortunately, Rebecca's estimation proved to be correct; the alarm system in place around the house was simple and easily disabled, the locks breakable and the property devoid of anything remotely savage. Once again, the overconfidence of Umbrella had worked in their favour.

The house itself was as empty as had been expected, and simple to manoeuvre around; little ornamentation to knock to the floor and equally sparse furniture on which to snag items of clothing. Even the study was not cluttered or in any state of disarray. One some level, Jill felt ashamed; her own small study was in such a state that she could never find what she wanted, and when she did it was several weeks too late, when she was looking for another case file entirely.

"Okay," Brad sighed once he had slipped into the small computer chair. "This could take a while, so...keep an eye out."

She settled by the window, remaining behind the curtains and out of site of whoever may be looking in. The houses around them were unlit, their occupiers likely asleep; at least, she hoped. For all they knew, it could be an estate populated by Umbrella's employees, keeping an eye on one another in case of a break in such as the one they were perpetrating. It would account for the lapsed security, but Jill knew that suburb-dwelling individuals tended to be less interested in security than the state of their lawn. A property as unguarded as Dr. Anderson's would be ransacked had it been on the same street as her apartment complex.

Through the reflection against the pristine glass, she noticed Brad's eyes darting up every few seconds to check her presence. His equipment lay in an orderly fashion across the desk, various pieces of machinery lighting up as he tapped away at the keyboard. She knew not of his work, but wished that he would continue without looking at her. It set her on edge and her skin already crawled with uncertainty.

She looked past the reflection, into the empty garden. More shrubbery, neatly-trimmed grass, flowers carefully selected for the lack of care that they required. She doubted the space had ever been used. What was the point in owning such a large house, with such beautiful grounds, if one never took the time to appreciate it? All Jill could afford was her small apartment; she would have killed for such a property.

Something caught her eye, something just outside her field of vision. A possum, perhaps? Maybe a fox? Could it have been a Raccoon? After all, the abundance of the creatures had lead the city to adopt their name.

'It's nothing,' she told herself. Recent events had taught her not to believe her eyes. Not all that they saw was real. Nevertheless, she called out for Brad to work faster. The sooner they left that place, the better.

"You okay, Jill?" Chris's voice asked, causing her to start and Brad to inhale sharply. "You've been quiet for a while."

"I've been quiet because we're trying not to get caught here," she whispered, finger pressing the earpiece harshly into her ear. "Does 'incognito' mean anything to you?"

He breathed deeply, a sound that crackled in her ear in a manner that was unnatural.

"And put that cigarette out," she warned. "I'd have thought you'd learned the value of life by now."

He chuckled, exhaling slowly away from the comm link.

"I've also learned the value of nicotine," he laughed. "Numbs a hell of a lot."

She smiled unintentionally. The simple sound of a smile in his voice was enough to warm her heart. Smiles were hard to come by these days, as was genuine laughter. Grateful though she was for the company of his voice, she found herself unable to express this gratitude. Be it some form of psychological defence mechanism or an absurd sense of masochistic glee, she had found herself pushing against the friendly affection that he offered when truthfully all she wanted to do was revel in it and to perhaps coax an occasional embrace from his almost stoic persona.

A sudden cough wrenched her from her thoughts, violent curses following soon after. She could almost see him doubled over in pain, jarring coughs aggravating his ribs. At this rate, they would never heal.

She tried to find the words to reach out to him, to sooth him in the same way the rusty burn of a cigarette apparently did. Nothing surfaced; only words she would have spoken to comfort a lover. His habit had only irritated her before, never concerned her. Now that they realised how much they all needed one another, his stupidity and general lack of concern for himself worried her. Just the other day she had caught him trying to hook a slice of toast from inside the toaster with a fork. Sure enough, it had been a plastic fork, but it had been enough to worry her. Worry her because she needed him. More than she was willing to let anyone know.

Unable to think of anything to say, she chose to remain silent. Her eyes flitted once again to the garden, searching the hedgerows for signs of movement.

Then she saw it.

A figure, unmoving, staring directly back at her. It seemed not even to breathe, so intense was its concentration. White skin, light blonde hair slicked back professionally, black aviators shielding its expression from view.

"No," she gasped.

The shadows lurched, twisting around one another, beating a morbid tattoo across his skin. The room spun around her, sounds distorting, light flickering when she knew there was no source. Knees buckled, wrist slamming painfully against the window frame. She could do nothing as she fell to the floor, sprawled uselessly against the carpet, gasping for breath that simply was not coming.

_"Jill."_

_He seemed surprised to see her, though her presence obviously provided him with great relief. It was enough to cease the movement of her hands to her weapon and she nigh on hung her head in shame._

_"You gave me a start," he laughed. She could not tell if he was joking or even if he found the idea humorous at all. His voice had the quality of an automated message; emotionless, sometimes cold._

_"Sorry, sir," she apologised. "Things have..."_

_"Gotten out of hand?"_

_Wesker turned, smiling ominously in her direction. She could not be sure, but she felt as though he were glancing over her shoulder. Was he expecting someone?_

_"I have to say, I'm a little surprised to see you alive," he commented. Too casual...did he care? Something did not feel right, something pricked at her reflexes and alarm bells sounded within her terrified mind. "Surprised, but glad. You've made it through quite a lot."_

_Her right hand raised quietly, resting on the handle of her Beretta. Enrico had spoken of a traitor...a traitor within S.T.A.R.S.. Barry was with her when Enrico met his unfortunate end; it could not possibly have been him. The alternatives did not leave much room for consideration. Rebecca and Chris were all that survived of the others, and she sure as hell wasn't the traitor. She doubted that Rebecca had the guts to execute a coup; the poor girl had screamed when a spider ran across her foot. Chris...Chris was capable of a lot of things, but he had a heart. A heart that she had seen bleed for his fallen teammates._

_"Sir, if you don't mind my asking," she began to probe. "Where have you been all this time?"_

_He did not reply, though his hand ceased its movements against the control panel before him. His silence dared her to move forward, dared her to pull her gun on him._

_"Wesker?"_

_"I did not hire you for your looks, Valentine," he spoke suddenly, the fear his voice struck into her not once affecting her steadfast position. "Your intelligence far outshone your competitors. As I said, I am glad that you made it this far."_

_"Sir?"_

_He spun suddenly, fist slamming into her skull with such velocity that she was momentarily blinded. Her weapon flew far out of her reach, body colliding heavily with the hard ground. For a moment, she felt the ground move beneath her, hands tight around a solitary ankle. In the moments before her vision dissolved completely, a light became visible. A light, feet, blood...and a voice that sounded unmistakably like her partner's._

_"Jill!"_

"Jill!"

Chris's voice roared through her headset, but she could not reply. Something pressed down on her throat, trickles of air seeping into her lungs. Fear, on all sides, crushing in, weighing down. She could barely drag herself across the carpet, barely move her limbs. Pain pushed through her chest with every frantic beat of her heart.

Arms came around her, pulled her into a seated position. A body behind her, a heart beating furiously against her spine.

"Jill! Jill, c-calm down! Fucking hell, she's _cold_."

"Shit, she's having a panic attack. Chris, stop it! You need to- Chris, shut the _fuck_ up!"

"Jill! Jill, answer me!"

So many voices...

"I c-c-" she tried, finding that she barely had enough breath within her to propel a few words into the open. "He's gonna k- Gonna-"

Every word brought something further and further up her throat, something thick and unpleasant that choked her more than the sudden absence of oxygen.

"She's shaking. Shit, I think she's gonna be sick."

"Let me go! Let me out of here!"

"Is she hyperventilating?"

"Yes!"

She scrabbled along the carpet, up the legs of the body that held her, against whatever she could reach. Why couldn't these people understand that something was wrong? There was no _air_. Surely such a monumental occurrence could not have gone unnoticed.

Suddenly, something was pressed against her mouth and she clawed against skin, against the hands that held it in place. An arm held her securely to the body behind her.

"I'm going out there. Barry!"

"Sit down! You're not helping anything!"

The air became warm, seeped into her lungs, alleviated the pain. Her limbs grew flaccid, exhausted from the unexpected exercise. Slowly, the study returned, one solid shape that did not bend or break around her. Soon, it was Brad that breathed heavily, and she was forced to bat his hands away, almost suffocated by the brown paper envelope that he held to her face.

She felt the retch before its threat became true, an entire day's worth of food spilling out into the waste bin. The taste was foul and nothing lay around to wipe the remains from her lips, but it was an occurrence she had become used to. A tissue was thrust under her chin and she gratefully wiped it across her jaw.

"You okay?" Brad's concern was touching but also, she noted, not entirely selfless. A trembling hand rubbed her back soothingly, and she cast it aside as she threw herself at the window frame, lifting herself up to see that the garden lay empty, the hedge Wesker had stood in moments before undisturbed.

'It was all in my head...'

* * *

Rebecca kept a wary eye on Chris as Brad continued his work. His initial request to abort the mission had been rejected by the others and this had done little to ease his agitation.

Over the past few days she had noticed Jill's behaviour altering. Less care was taken in her work, more attention paid to her fellow survivors than to actual productivity. She had wondered if these changes were building up to a crescendo, but had not expected such a peak to be reached during such an important investigation.

It once again highlighted her inexperience. The others had allowed her to take charge of this 'project', despite her lack of knowledge and expertise. Barry had knowledge of forcing locks; Jill had taught him herself. Had she been in her right mind, she would have sent Barry with Brad and kept Jill out of harm's way. What the hell had she been thinking?

Even now, she could feel herself falling apart. What little self confidence she had found over the past twenty-four hours had fallen away and left her once again naked and exposed.

"She'll be fine," she forced herself to say. Jill and Brad had signed off comms once they were safely out of the Anderson property and in Barry's van. They did not yet know if anything of interest had been obtained, only that Brad had copied what he could find.

"Fine?" Chris's tone was less than friendly. "She had a panic attack! I knew she shouldn't have went out there alone."

"It wouldn't have made any difference," she assured him. "Other than your overreaction if you had been there with her. So relax; she vomited into the liner of the waste basket and they took that with them. Anderson will never know she was there."

"I should have been there," he insisted, expression faraway. He seemed preoccupied with a thought, and whatever it was it was driving him mad.

"Chris," she whispered, reaching out to touch his arm. He shirked away from her involuntarily, but turned to smile weakly in forced reassurance

"What's got you so wound up?" It seemed that considering his reaction and the deep meaning behind it helped her to escape from her own shortcomings, even if just for a moment or two.

She glanced upon the ashtray and the pile of cigarettes that lay within its confines. He had worked through a whole packet in roughly two hours; a cause for concern to anyone who knew what one of those damn things could do to someone. The acrid smoke forced upon him a cough that provoked violent exclamations of pain. Her own wounds had almost healed, but Chris still had a fair way to go. Aggravating his injury would only prolong the pain and, by proxy, his temper.

"I can't begin to understand how you feel about all this," she whispered meekly when he offered no reply. "But at least you have someone with which to share your pain. Don't push her away."

His fingers dipped into the empty cigarette carton, his search for another fix coming up bust.

"She's drifting away regardless of whether I push or not," he sighed. "At least I _try_ to talk about it."

Rebecca chuckled quietly to herself, smiling gently as she turned to him once again.

"You don't talk, Chris," she pointed out. "You yell. But still...your burden is greater than ours. I've never...I've never been in a serious relationship, but I can imagine-"

"W-what?" he spluttered suddenly, all attention quickly diverted to her words. She was pleased that he now hung on to every word that she said, but was admittedly a little offended by his shocked reaction.

"I'm only eighteen," she defended. "Study has always been-"

"That's not...not what I meant," he clarified, moving close enough that she could smell the lingering tobacco on his breath. "What do you mean 'serious relationship'? Wait, do you...do you think Jill and I are...well-"

"You're not?" Mortification barely described the embarrassment that hit her. She had always been too presumptuous, always believed in the obvious. She had still not quite wrapped her young mind around the fact that the obvious was not always the truth.

Chris sank back into his seat, not as amused by the misunderstanding as she had thought he would be. Had she misinterpreted his reaction? Were they truly a couple, perhaps traversing a particularly difficult stretch of their relationship?

"No. No, we're not."

He looked painfully to his discarded headset, ripped from his personage in the midst of Jill's panic attack. It was all she could think of to do at the time.

Was there an aspect of Jill that she had correctly interpreted? The woman truly was an enigma. Surely, she could not be blamed for her assumption. They were closer than any best friends she had ever come across, and the looks they stole at each other...

"But you wish you were?" she asked with sudden, unfamiliar bravery.

He did not answer. A sudden sadness hung over them both and she realised in an instant that it was not a topic she wished to probe.

"How have you been?" he asked. His tone suggested that the change in subject was not entirely down to discomfort. "We haven't really spoke since...well..."

She sighed morosely. Richard had not appeared since her departure from his old apartment, but the same sense of disorientation lingered. She found it hard to distinguish between dream and reality, and barely had the energy to wade through the day. But she was holding on, as were they all.

"You know, you've got guts, kid," he said suddenly. "Feisty. Guess that's why Wesker hired you."

Unsure what to make of this compliment, she nodded vaguely.

"I still feel out of place," she admitted. "You're all so strong, so experienced...sometimes it's hard just trying to fit in, you know?"

His hand moved suddenly to her own, squeezing it in a rough yet reassuring manner. His fingers were warm, calloused slightly but with a touch that momentarily chased her demons away.

"Strength isn't experience," he told her, looking her dead in the eye so that his point did not go astray. "You're only as strong as you let yourself be, and if you just opened your eyes...you'd realise that we're not so different after all."

Nausea bubbled in her throat, tears welling in her eyes and in her sinuses. Those words meant a lot to her in his voice; the man she had hidden behind for the best part of that dreadful night, and not always physically.

"I'm not as strong as Jill," she spoke sadly, a hint of bitterness in her tone. The older woman's strength may have been faltering as of late, but her composure was striking. To bottle up such emotion and still be the crutch upon which others leaned was the mark of an incredibly powerful mind.

"Jill isn't strong," Chris laughed quietly, turning from her as a soft smile found its way to his lips. "She's just stubborn. Which in her case luckily amounts to the same thing."

She laughed with him, lost in a moment so pure it was almost normal. Her indulgence lapped up the sense of belonging that wound around her, caressing wounds that were less than physical. Was this what would have awaited her had Wesker not led them all to their deaths? While part of her hoped that it was, part of her could not bear the thought. Lives had been lost, and she was selfishly wishing for a warm atmosphere. She may have missed out on camaraderie, but the others had missed out on so much more. They were all so young...

The door swung open, bringing her thoughts to a premature end. Chris's attention fell away from her needs the instant his partner stepped into the office. Pale, dishevelled and yet somehow serene, Jill looked up at him with a bewildered expression, hands that he could not see suddenly reaching for his shirt. Words were exchanged, Brad and Barry filed passed them, and then an embrace...something desperate, frantic and yet still deeply romantic.

The scene handed her the answer to her question, and the answer to another she never would have dared ask. They were in love; secretly, hopefully and tragically. There was something deeply unsettling about the heart-warming display before her. The echo of something wonderful, slowly fading into darkness.

Under any other circumstances, two broken hearts would fall together easily. For them, the dark days were not over, and perhaps they never would be. It was a disheartening thought, not just for Chris and for Jill, but for all of them.

**AN - Please review :)**


	5. Like A Man Possessed

**Strength Through Wounding**

**AN - **Happy new year, everyone! I hope 2010 is treating you all well so far. I finished this a little sooner than I thought, but one again it deviated a little from the plan. It was intended to be a quite Chris-heavy chapter (hence the title ^_^) and about half this length, but once I start typing I never know what's going to come out. I've been listening to a lot of new music lately but one old song that came up when I was thinking about this chapter was Animal I Have Become by Three Days Grace. It could be Chris's theme song at the moment lol. Chapter title is from a song by The Get Up Kids.  
The next chapter will likely not be up for at least two weeks (busy busy busy) but you may or may not be happy to know that I'm trying to work on a little something for Valentine's day. I've always wanted to write a holiday-centred oneshot but inspiration always strikes at the wrong time.

Another huge, huge thank you to everyone who reviewed: **Sparkle Valentine, Kenshin13, KT324, xSummonerYunax, Devil Rebel, cjjs, tek, Razial** and **J.L. Zielesch.** I love reading your comments/feedback so please keep them coming :).

_**Chapter Four -**Like A Man Possessed_

_"I know, but I don't. I'm blind in every other eye."_

**_August 8, 1998. 3:15am_**

"You're standing on my foot, you big oaf!"

Chris stepped back suddenly, bracing himself against the wall as he uttered a hurried apology. Jill pretended to be annoyed, smiling in the dark as she searched for the pins within the reader beside the door.

"You may want to ease up on the beer," she advised, finding the lock simple enough to allow a momentary slip in concentration. "There was a hell of a lot of weight in that step."

"Muscle is heavier than fat," he grumbled.

"Keep telling yourself that, Uncle Phil," she teased further. The lock snapped beneath her fingers, the door to her left whirring open without the faintest hint of alarm bells.

She looked to him for praise, but realised soon after that no such compliment would come after her light-hearted joking.

"Uncle Phil?" he repeated, rolling his eyes. "That's the best you could come up with; a Fresh Prince reference?"

"As touching as this little argument is, can we please focus?" Barry requested, voice strained by the twitching of lips.

Chris tapped his earpiece, expression hardening as he suddenly found himself back in the moment.

The analysis of the data Brad had extracted from Dr. Anderson's hard drive had proved more useful than anticipated. Little evidence had been found, but suspicious circumstances and conflicting accounts had led them to several Umbrella-owned properties across the city. While Brad continued to analyse what had been found, the others took it upon themselves to investigate, spurred on by the success of the Anderson foray.

Pharmacies, private housing, storage depots; Jill's 'talent' had been tested in ways she had never even conceived. Even so, each break-in brought with it feelings of fear and trepidation. What if she suffered another panic attack? The memories still lingered, though she rarely attended to them. Never before had she felt such a sincere lack of control. So sure was she that she was going to die, all that had driven her was the desire to run, to get the hell out of there and not care how much attention she drew to herself.

Chris had been attentive in the extreme since that night, but she was reluctant to admit that it was comforting. He would poke and prod at her recently-renovated defense system, but she never once snapped under the pressure he applied and confessed the truly haunting emotions that festered within. Though his attentiveness was annoying on occasions, she felt secure in the knowledge that should control slip from her grasp, he was there to catch it and to keep her feet firmly on the ground.

"Go," she whispered, falling back behind his taller frame. She was glad that he was back at her side, now that he had proven that his temper could be kept in check and could remember to take his pain medication every morning.

If only his temper would remain so restrained in less professional situations...

Once they were fully immersed in darkness, Chris reached back to tap her wrist. It was not a signal as such, simply a way for him to confirm that she was close by and keeping in step with him. Flashlights sprung to life, beams trained low on the floor. The blinds of the medical centre were firmly closed, but they thought it better to not tempt fate.

"Are you in the back room yet?" This time, it was Rebecca who spoke, shy and reserved but asserting herself experimentally.

"Almost," Jill spoke in a low tone.

A medical centre that tended to refer visitors to a nearby doctor's surgery was quick to provoke interest within the group. Add to that the frequent visits paid by Dr. Anderson and other names they had learned to associate with Umbrella, and they had grounds for compelling suspicion. It was this suspicion that led them to arrive at the conclusion that it was little more than a carefully-disguised meeting grounds for employees. There was sure to be something of interest here. If only they could break past the rather complex lock to the back room.

"Man, this place is strange," Chris muttered. "It's how a clinic _should_ look, but I haven't seen anything this..."

"Clinical?" Jill finished. Chris nodded nervously. She agreed with his observation; it was almost catalogue in its precision. No medical centre she had ever stepped inside had been this flawless.

"Oh, score," Chris laughed quietly, pulling something from beneath a lone desk. "Yeah, I doubt much work gets done here."

She turned to his position several feet from her, dismay settling into her expression as she watched him flick through a fairly recent copy of Playboy. Many words that she wanted to throw at him floated through her seething mind. All fell from thought when his expression turned to one of disinterest; a frown that plainly said 'I've already read this one'.

Jealousy festered in a small corner of her mind, repressed only by the lack of surprise at his actions. He was a man; a man who, by her estimates, had not satisfied certain needs in many months. It caused her to question his sudden lack of interest in finding a girlfriend. The majority of conversations between her male teammates had centred around recent conquests or members of the R.P.D. that they hoped to be future conquests. Had she not seen the care they had taken with her and with female friends they had not taken into their beds, she likely would have thought them all to be pigs.

Truthfully, his lack of interest in women as of late had pleased her. Jealousy was not an emotion she handled well. While his choice in serious girlfriends had been less superficial, his attention was always held by the type of beauty that one had to pay for. Jill was no dog, she knew that much, but she had never considered herself to be exceptionally pretty. She had never drawn male attention the way her friends had. Perhaps they were simply more confident than her?

"Maybe you shouldn't wear them out so quickly," she joked; a simple, shameless way of ignoring her thoughts.

Chris turned from the magazine, stepping closer to her, close enough that she could smell his aftershave.

"Care to show me something new?" he teased.

Something twisted within her, freeing the animal she fought so hard to keep caged. His flirting usually provoked a roll of the eyes or a sweeping brush of irritation, but not this, never this.

Even shrouded in darkness he was still handsome; boyish and mature in the same breath.

Swallowing the lump that had promptly risen to her throat, she turned from him and focused her attention on the lock that was their sole interest in the room.

"We should...probably hurry," she slurred.

"Jill, it was a _joke_," he assured her in bewilderment. She had taken more lewd suggestions with a larger dose of humour.

She could think of no reason for the way his suggestion affected her, other than the usual.

"I know," she whispered. "But let's focus."

There was no reply from his direction; not even a breath. It made it somewhat easier to concentrate on disabling a rather tricky lock, but once again she felt ashamed that she had been forced to cast aside a well-meaning attempt at normality. It was his way of making her feel more at ease. Trouble was, his words had quite the opposite effect.

"Sorry," he sighed, a little dejected.

A smile came out of nowhere, encouragement that he could not see.

"Could you hold this pin here?" she asked with a flick of her right wrist. Moments later, his fingertips slid across the back of her hand and gripped the pick. Even gloved, she could feel the warmth of his skin.

Warm breath fell at her ear, that damn stench of tobacco drowning out the masculine scent of his aftershave.

_"Hey, Valentine!"_

_She turned suddenly, caught unaware by the voice of her comrade. Joseph waved enthusiastically, Forest and Chris turning in bewilderment beside him._

_"Told you it was her!" she heard him shout as she tentatively waved back. The countless shots her friends had persuaded her to down had begun to catch up with her. Perhaps the martinis were a bad idea?_

_"Oh, cute," Patricia purred beside her. "You know them?"_

_She considered for a moment denying association. After all, Patricia had never set foot inside the R.P.D.; she wouldn't be any the wiser. Regardless of her wish, she knew that her friend was looking for a good time and it seemed she had set her eye on three possible targets; there would be no stopping her now._

_"S.T.A.R.S.," Jill hiccupped. She gripped the stem of her glass, pouring the clear liquid down her throat. It was only a matter of time before they made their way over and she would like to have no memory of what transpired, if it was at all possible. Forest was in a happy relationship, but a ridiculous drunk. Joseph was recently single, and Chris... Chris was single, attractive and from what she gathered, not averse to a little fooling around._

_She had been with the S.T.A.R.S. unit for nigh on six months and although she considered her teammates good friends, she was a little reluctant to introduce them to her friends outside of the R.P.D. staff. The reason escaped her, but she knew that awkwardness would likely ensue should the two groups mix. Chris had already met many of her girlfriends, mostly by accident, and she could never shake the awkwardness of the looks the girls threw the man she had come to identify as the closest thing to a best friend she had._

_"Why the hell have you been pining over Jason?" Patricia asked. "These guys are _way_ cuter. Especially the one with the tattoo."_

_"I haven't been pining over Jason," Jill defended, gripping her friend's arm as the alcohol suddenly severed the link between her brain and her legs. "I just don't think dumping the bastard was punishment enough. And f'your information, the guy with the tattoo is taken."_

_Patricia smirked, obviously suppressing a snarky remark._

_Suddenly, fingers trailed up the back of her arm, the overpowering scent of cheap men's cologne assaulting her senses._

_"Hey, darlin'," a sickeningly familiar voice purred. "Let me get you another one."_

_"Oh, for God's _sake_!" she amost screamed, rounding on the man. "Can't you take the hint? Wax your chest, wash your face and pull the socks out of your pants, then try it on someone else."_

_Patricia suddenly fell into a fit of hysterics. Jill was at the end of her patience. It was one thing to accost her, it was another completely to return every half hour and hope she was drunk enough to take home._

_"Jeez," the man defended. "This one's got a mouth on her."_

_"Is there a problem, honey?"_

_Though its statement irritated her more than the man's desperation, this voice was familiar in a more satisfying way. His cologne, too; it was sweeter, complimenting a deeply satisfying natural scent in a less invasive manner._

_Perhaps it was her intoxitated condition, or perhaps she was simply desperate for a way out of this confrontation; whatever her reason, she found herself leaning into his body and welcoming the arm that wound intimately around her waist._

_"D'know," she coughed, a less than ladylike bubble of air rising in her throat._

_"No problem," the man apologised, stepping aside with alarming haste._

_"Honey?" she asked, rounding on Chris. "I oughtta lay you out for that." Apparantly, she found an attitude comfortable to wear that night._

_"Hey," he laughed, taking a step forward and pinning her to the bar with his body. "Don't turn the attitude on me. You want me to call him back?"_

_She smiled, holding back a giggle._

_"Honey," she sighed sarcastically. "Can't you find some other girl to rub up against?"_

_For whatever reason, her words only drew him closer to her, his head dipping to her neck. His lips hovered millimetres from the surface of her skin, nose nuzzling affectionately into the curve of her neck. She moved her hands to his torso, pushing against him. However, alcohol had made her arms weak and she was no match for his strength. She was left to press against muscle, fighting against a rising wave of energy that was unwelcome and verged on sick to consider._

_"He's watching," he whispered, lips now at her ear. "Have to make it convincing."_

_He pulled away after a few seconds, smiling sadistically down at her. She could tell by the blank expression in his eyes that was drunk, though it was obvious to both that she was much further gone._

_"You're an ass," she told him, her point almost nullified by the fractured nature of her speech. Why the hell was it so difficult to speak when intoxicated?_

_"Come on," he laughed, hands moving flirtatiously to her waist. "You know you want a piece of this."_

_She rolled her eyes. Now was not the time for another one of his dumb attempts at flirting. Handling such advances was easy when she knew that he was joking, but the way he held her cast doubt upon his intentions._

_Even so, she found that an answer did not come so easily to her. Her jerk of an ex-boyfriend had temporarliy hardened her heart; she was not looking for love or something tangible. The heat that came from the union of their hips burned a suggestion into her impaired consciousness. Chris was not unattractive; he was a close friend, someone she knew she could trust. She wagered he would know what he was doing, too. There was a lot of tension she felt the need to release; would it be so bad?_

_"What harm would it do?" she thought aloud. Chris seemed taken aback, and mumbled for clarification._

_"What's a one night stand between friends?" she purred, running a finger down his chest. What disturbed her was the dubious nature of her flirtation. Was she joking? She could not tell._

_Chris stepped away, smiling as he severed all physical contact between the two._

_"You don't want to sleep with me," he told her, serious in every dimension of the word._

_"And why is that?" The least she could do was humour him._

_"Because I wouldn't respect you," he spoke truthfully. "Because you'll hate me in the morning."_

_She balked at his honesty, her mind sobering up a little as it comprehended his speech._

_"You're hot, Jill," he told her. "But you're also my best friend. I don't want to throw that away."_

_Suddenly, she felt her face flush. The confidence she had found at the bottom of many shot glasses was gone and she was left a weak, embarassed girl who had just propositioned a man she certainly did not want to wake up next to._

_"Hey Jill," Patricia whispered, seeming to believe that keeping her voice low would not break whatever was going on between the two. "I'm going to dance. You gonna be okay?"_

_Was she? She nodded anyway._

_"I'm taking you home, anyway," Chris announced suddenly. "It's too easy for someone to take advantage of you like this."_

_"I can look after myself, you know," she protested. Had he truly been drunk or merely pretending?_

_"I know you're still angry at Jason," he sighed. Definitely under the influence; there was no way he would have brought the infamous ex up had he been sober. Perhaps sensing her dismay, he moved close to whisper in her ear. "You're a great girl, Jill. Don't cheapen yourself like this. You're worth a hell of a lot more. Someday, you'll find someone who understands that. Until then, please don't settle for this."_

She remembered that night with conflicting emotion, remembered how she wished her friends had put things in perspective the way Chris had. She also remembered the next morning; how she had stumbled out of her bedroom with a bitch of a hangover, only to practically beat him to death with a cushion when she found him sleeping on her sofa. Once she had realised who her lodger was, embarrassment set in. Details of the previous night had been hazy at best, but she knew that she had flirted with him, almost puked down his front and then cried childishly when he finally succeeded in leading her back to her apartment. Alcohol was not a good friend to her.

Though her feelings for him at that time were purely platonic, she could look back at his words with fondness and appreciation. Despite the joking around and the hell he often made her working life, she knew that he cared for her. Enough that he would forsake a night in bed with any number of women - herself included - to ensure that she made it home safely.

She was vaguely aware of the pressure of the pins beneath her tools, too preoccupied with the scent of his being and the thrill of his proximity. It had been months since she had been touched by a man and she knew it in the worst possible way. The thought of sweating beneath Chris, of his body pushing hers to limits she never knew she had, and holding her as she trembled... She doubted that even her dreams would compare.

'A kiss would suffice.'

The sane sliver of her mind called out to her through the veil of sexual frustration, and she knew that it was right. She did not truly want a messy night of passion, not even a bone-shattering orgasm. What she wanted was comfort, security, love, and not with any man...with Chris. She wanted to feel something that was _real_.

His eyes flitted to hers, a similar lonely desire reflecting in the depths of his sorrow.

So much had happened in the weeks prior to the night they lost their friends. Their friendship had reached new heights, the emotional distance between them closing significantly. On some level, she had been convinced that he returned her feelings in some way, that he was perhaps days away from asking her on a date. Then Umbrella shattered their lives. If the pieces were out there, would they even fit together anymore?

If he truly felt for her as more than a friend, had his feelings changed over the last fortnight? Some days she wondered if she was the same person. Perhaps he had realised that she was not?

Living vicariously through dreams and stolen moments was all that kept her aching heart beating. Moments like these...

A pick slipped, knocking a single pin out of alignment.

"Oh no."

"What is it?" he asked, voice coming clear and crisp as reality returned to her.

As it transpired, he was not required to answer her. A siren rang out, the unmistakeable clang of metal shutters sounding behind her. In the time it took them both to turn, two windows and the door were sealed off, severely restricting their means of escape. Somewhere outside, dogs barked, voices screamed into the night.

"Get out!" Chris screamed, pushing her towards the nearest window.

"What the hell is going on?" Barry roared through the headset. Jill could not focus on his voice, so disabling was the violent alarm.

Dull thuds beat in time with the siren, the window giving on the third blow. Jill could barely react, but accepted Chris's help and hauled herself over the frame, careful not to cut herself on broken glass. She landed painfully on the hard soil, left hand twisted awkwardly beneath her.

Shutters fell around them, and suddenly Chris was out of sight, a wall of corrugated steel where he had stood moments before.

"No!" she screamed, beating her fists desperately against the metal. Her heart lept into her throat, choking her with the weight of her carelessness.

Suddenly, another thud. Two...three... A window several panes along broke outwards, something large flying out onto the grass an instant before the shutter slammed in place. Wasting no time, she ran to him, heaving him to his feet even as he groaned in protest. His breaths were short and inadequate as they sprinted for freedom, the siren fading into the distance.

Gasping for air, they both stopped once they were sure they were not being followed.

"Chris," she urged, hands on his shoulder as he slid to the ground. "Your ribs."

"I'm fine," he brushed off. "Landed on my other side."

She chose not to believe him, observing his breathing as Rebecca had taught her to, only to find that it was as normal as could be expected.

He reached for her hand so suddenly that she had to fight not to pull back.

"You, on the other hand," he breathed, slipping her glove off as carefully as he could.

The act proved unnaturally painful and she bit back a tearful cry. It was a cry that turned into disgust when her eyes fell on the unnatural angle at which her middle finger was bent.

"Oh shit," she gasped, this time fighting back a rising wave of nausea. She had never been truly squeamish, but dislocations made her skin crawl. There was nothing natural about a twisted limb. It was the reason she could rarely stomach street performers; who on Earth would want to do that for _fun_?

"Hold still," he instructed, taking hold of the injured finger.

"No!" she protested, pulling her hand away and holding it protectively to her body. He was untrained and often rough in his touch; chances are he would wrench the appendage off completely.

"Rebecca will fix it," she insisted.

"Fix what?" a voice asked, throwing her off-balance. "What happened? Are you alright?"

"The lock failed," Chris explained. "Set the damn alarm off. Jill dislocated her finger on the way out."

"Are you sure it's a dislocation?"

"We all went through basic field medicine," he sighed. "I know what a dislocation looks like."

Rebecca went silent for a few short seconds, perhaps biting back an angry comment.

"Fix it," she told him. "I'll run her down the ER in the morning for an X-ray."

"She won't let me touch the damn thing."

"Can we stop arguing?" Jill requested, her voice as frazzled as her nerves. "Please? I just...need a moment."

She removed her headset before the others could complain, letting it rest uselessly at her neck. An all too familiar dread seized her. A moment's concentration; that was all that had been lost. A moment she had taken to wade in the shallows of her deep love for her partner in crime that had almost cost him his life. Had Umbrella caught him, she doubted they would hand him in to the police. He would have been shot on sight...or worse.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, feeling suddenly faint. "I should have been concentrating, I should have-"

"It wasn't your fault," he returned. "We accepted the risks that came with-"

"I wasn't paying attention!" she insisted harshly. "I should have been giving that damn thing my undivided attention and I let myself get distracted. It was unprofessional, idiotic and almost got us both locked up."

Her body moved, though she herself made no movement. She found that she fell quite easily against him, his comfort intoxicating and somewhat disorienting.

Her mind had not been her own lately, for more reasons than stupid emotions. She wished that she could hide from the shadows, longing for the comfort of normality. Some days she felt as though she had taken her life for granted. Were she able to step back in time, she would have appreciated normal so much more. Now...she doubted that she would ever experience it again.

"What's bothering you?" Chris asked.

A frown found its way to her features. Would he understand if she told him? Or would it detract from the respect he held for her? No...she was not ready to open up, not now, not to him.

"Nothing," she insisted. There was movement as his right hand rubbed her back, his left moving gentle to hold hers.

"I don't buy it," he smirked, his sudden avoidance unnatural and jarring. She chose not to press the matter, lest she force him to move from his comforting embrace. "You're thinking about Friends, aren't you?"

She laughed, suddenly not minding the abrupt shift in topic.

"The season ended on a cliffhanger," she explained, deciding to play along. "It looks like Ross- Ah!"

Blinding pain shot through her left hand, up her arm and back down again until it settled in the knuckle.

"Fixed your finger."

* * *

**_August 8, 1998. 12:15pm._**

Given the near-catastrophic occurence in the early hours of the morning, the day had so far ran smoothly. Rebecca discovered that Jill's finger had set perfectly and Chris continued to nurse a bruised jaw he received in return for his rather unorthodox solution to his partner's injury. Barry appreciated the quiet that drifted serenely through the office, unsurprised that news of the break-in had not reached the media or the police department. Umbrella tended to take care of their own, as was proven by Brad's discovery of data pertaining to a rather dubious security force hired by the company.

Barry's interest, however, lay in the activities of the Chief; a man no stranger to political sleaze. One detail easily noticed over the past fortnight was that, despite requiring them to arrive on time for work every weekday morning as per usual, he rarely sent any wok their way. It seemed as though he were keeping them within his sight whilst ensuring that they were occupied and not out causing 'trouble'. Had it not been for officer Branagh's frequent requests for assistance, their presence at the R.P.D. would be pointless.

Investigating Irons proved more difficult than anticipated. The man seemed to have a plethora of 'spare' accounts; a sure sign that he harboured a dirty secret, but one that made it nigh on impossible to find out what exactly that secret was. When the burden began to get too heavy to shoulder alone, Chris had stepped in, sharing his suspicions. It occurred to them both that Irons foolishly trusted Barry, perhaps due to the attention he paid to Wesker's orders. It was a trust they intended to exploit.

"Good news," Chris announced as he returned to his desk. "I just spoke to Jack. He said that while the evidence is not enough mount a large scale investigation, he understands our suspicions and will look into Irons's background for us."

"That's great!" Barry exclaimed. It was the first hint of good news they had received all week.

"He said it could take a couple of months but he's fairly confident that he'll get clearance," Chris continued. "What's more, he said that if there's any evidence of bribery or interference from Umbrella on any level, it could be enough to secure a warrant for an investigation into the corporation's activities, and if anything turns up he can use what little evidence we have against them. We may actually be taken seriously for once."

Barry allowed himself to feel a little relief, but knew better than to pin all of his hopes on Chris's old friend. Their personal war may be over before it truly began...it was too good to be true. After all, Umbrella had evaded the F.B.I. for so long that a simple investigation would likely only prove a minor inconvenience for them.

"Did you find anything?"

He looked up, shrugging gently.

"Just more damn holes," he sighed. "The odd mention of run-ins with the law, but no details. Bastard must have erased his own file, 'least the one we have on system."

"What the hell is he hiding?"

It was a question they had all begun to ask, one that had slowly begun to edge its way to the forefront of their own investigation. Somewhere deep in his gut, Barry knew that Irons was the missing link in their chain of understanding. All leads pointed to the R.P.D., but all they found when they followed were dead ends and more questions.

A short rustle followed by the click of a lighter drew his attention back to his comrade. Had Rebecca graced them with her presence that afternoon, he was sure she would have a few choice words to throw his way. Barry knew from experience that many men graduated from the armed forces with a habit they had not taken with them upon entry. Even so, Chris had always been a relatively light smoker, going through as little as a two or three packs a week. So far he had counted three in as many days, and who knew how many he smoked outside of the office?

As much concern as he held for his old friend, he acknowledged that his current temper was foul enough without adding nicotine withdrawal to the fire.

"How's Kathy?" Chris asked. Had he sensed his friend's line of thought?

"She's talkin' to me now," he chuckled sadly. "That's something, I suppose."

Chris remained respectfully silent. Barry knew that on some level he agreed with Kathy's reaction. It was what he deserved, after all.

Kathy's dismay helped to heal the guilt that he felt, but it still lingered in the many crevices of his mind. Perhaps he would never shake that awful feeling.

The girls, on the other hand... Moira and Polly had attached themselves more firmly to his side since the incident, perhaps out of fear of losing him they way they had lost their 'uncles'. They would wait on the doorstep for his return, hang over his shoulder as he completed paperwork at home, and even curl up at the bottom of the bed he shared with their mother. They were his angels, through and through; the mere memory of Wesker's threats boiled his blood every time he considered those terrifying words.

A thought bubbled to the surface of his consciousness, unwelcome and hideous to consider. Media activity in their neighbourhood had calmed, but a general vulture-like presence remained. Vans parked on street corners, microphones that would find their way to his lips as he collected the morning paper. So many vans, so many people...how many were truly media?

Moira had spoken of a van that lingered around the vicinity of her school; unmoving except to vacate the premises after hours. Though the information greatly disturbed him, he hid his fear from his daughter, telling her only to stay away from this van and to remain in the safety of the school grounds until she was collected by her parents. He had considered pulling her out of school, but what good would it do? He did not have the time nor the expertise to tutor her or Polly at home and neither did Kathy. The principal of the school was an old friend of the family; someone he trusted more than a sitter or private tutor.

He looked to Chris for a further twist in conversation, but was met with nothing but a faraway look. Barry had not been the only preoccupied mind as of late. Worry for one another was all that kept them safe, but Chris's worry for his partner had grown to the point of obsession. He suspected that Rebecca's decision to keep her complaints to herself and allow him to once again partner with Jill was directly linked to the nervousness she had begun to exhibit when they found themselves working together. She had not yet witnessed the full extent of his infamous temper, and was determined that it remain that way.

Blame fell also upon Jill. Somehow, it had fallen to her to keep his volatile nature within safe limits, but it had been her behaviour that seemed to push him closer to an explosive peak. Had he not thought that seperating the two would only cause more friction, Barry would have suggested that Chris move out days before now.

The hours ticked away, little work was done and eventually it was time to pack up and return home for much-needed rest. As per his daily ritual, Barry left every thought of Umbrella at the door. Evenings were family time; time to work on the damage in the most meaningful area of his life.

* * *

Chris did not know how he found the window, only that he crashed through it with unprecedented force, followed by sleek black shapes that began to charge before he could steady himself in this new environment.

They were dogs, he could see that now. Dobermans, possibly a Doberman-Shepherd cross. Magnificent in poise, stature and what was left of musculature. They fell against his hail of bullets, less threatening now that they had been forced into the narrow corridor. Bullets ploughed into damp flesh, little evidence of their entry showing against matted fur and exposed gristle.

Once he was sure that the hallway was clear, he wasted no time in fleeing the scene, ravenous barks of the remaining canine creatures drawing ever closer from beyond the broken glass.

He held on to the thought of awaiting teammates; it was all that blocked images of Joseph's half-eaten corpse from his mind. "Think now, feel later"; that was what Jill always told him. If there was ever a time to think, it was upon him.

Wesker had led Jill and Barry to the same mansion he had entered in a more commando-style manner, he was sure of it. Now, all that was left was to find them, to reunite and to somehow come up with a plan.

Jill... At that moment in time, he hoped that she was on top form. Barry had little sense in his S.W.A.T.-trained mind and Wesker would have them hole up and wait for back-up, as per protocol. As far as he was concerned, the others were out there, and they needed help. Forest, Richard, Ken...Rebecca.

Or had they already met the same fate as Joseph?

_'Forest is dead. Ken, too. Richard is alive, but he'll die in the end.'_

He spun suddenly on the spot, searching for the source of this horrific suggestion. The room he found himself in remained empty, quiet...desolate. Decorated in the style of a century past, yet strangely it appeared to have been well lived-in.

A thud. Slow scrapes against the opposite door. The handle rattled ominously, but ultimately did not turn.

Thinking clearly for perhaps the first time that night, he slammed a new clip into his pistol and took several steps forward. Slowly, that was the way to do it. Turn the handle, wait a heartbeat, then throw open the door and take a step back.

He followed this inbuilt instinct to the word, catching a humanoid figure in his sight a moment later.

"Hold still," he commanded, training his sight carefully on the new form. There was something not right about its posture; body in a position of resignation, as though it waited for a reason to move. When Chris's voice reached its ears, it turned, a soulless gaze falling hungrily upon his visage.

"What the-?" His voice came as little more than a gasp, gun lowering as his mind worked furiously to accept the visual he was so sure lay before him.

The figure was male, late thirties perhaps, clad in casual daywear and bearded to boot. Yet not enough flesh clung to its bones to give the impression of a healthy man. Skin hung like papyrus from exposed bone, giving the distinct impression that everything between the two had disintegrated. Exposed muscle appeared withered and dry; useless. Yet it still moved, ambling towards him unsteadily as guttural groans escaped from what had perhaps once been a throat.

Without knowing entirely why, he fired. It was an instinctive reaction, born from the mind of a stunned man who had once been a little boy with a morbid interest in the works of George A. Romero. It came also from the mind of a man who had trained with the military; everything about this individual screamed intent of harm in the worst possible way. Dried blood flaked against broken fingernails and fell into the crevices of decaying skin; he had likely killed before.

His mind screamed 'zombie', but he refused to believe such an assumption. Zombies were fictional, they weren't _real_.

The smell that had forced its way into the room with the entrance of this..._thing_ became overpowering, hitting the back of his throat and forcing a retch upon him. Hastily, he stepped over the carcass, seeking pockets of fresh air within the new corridor.

Then it came again. The unmistakeable hesitant shuffle of feet, the brush of fingertips against wallpaper. His mind could not focus, sweat beading on his forehead. A figure turned the corner, faced him.

He fired.

Her eyes met his, wide in surprise that in an instant fell from hopeful to stunned.

"J-Jill?"

She glanced down, thick crimson liquid seeping from a small hole in her abdomen, and from another in her chest. He was at her side when she fell, catching her painfully in his arms.

"Oh God," he cried, pressing a hand to the gushing wound that lay but an inch from her navel. All that came of this fruitless endeavour was a cry of discomfort, a sudden rush of warmth against his hand and a flash of pain to the numbness that had seized him.

"I'm sorry," he gasped. He was _sorry_? Sorry for what? For shooting her? For being careless in his aim and not killing her instantly with a headshot?

"Jill, I'm so sorry." Sorry was all he had.

"You're...a-alright," she noted, happy at least with this knowledge.

But happy for what?

"Just keep breathing," he begged. He fumbled within the pockets at his chest, finding a crude field bandage with seemingly great effort. But what good would it do? She needed surgery, not compression.

She coughed suddenly, breaths becoming raspy and infrequent. Words seemed to catch in her throat, spatters of blood appearing on her chin.

A lung. He had punctured a damn lung.

It was all he could do not to beg, not to break down and scream his fear through cauterised vocal cords. He could not think straight, could not seperate one emotion from the other.

'Think, don't feel'. But it could not be helped. Her life coated his hands, stained his clothes. The stomach he had hopes that one day would swell from his efforts shone a violent and offensive shade. So much time hoping and dreaming, so little acting. So much time theorising a future and delaying a confession...

The blood on his hands burned his skin, filled his lungs with its potency. It stained his soul, stole his thoughts, and slowly severed every attachment he felt to the life that was attempting to beat its way out of his chest.

Would the words matter now? Would they help?

_'You don't have the courage. You'll never have the courage. You can't even confess to offer her a flicker of comfort. Coward.'_

They were only words...

He lowered his lips to hers desperately, finding her fading warmth for a moment they may not have to spare. He tasted copper, tainting her skin with its impurity. But also...warmth. Pleasure. Passion. A promise...a promise of what would have been. The knot within his stomach untwisted, blossoming into something beyond comprehension, stealing him from the moment and planting him into another entirely. She was perfection, embodied in a simple touch of the lips. Perfection that returned his affection, devoid of breath but determined to see the act through.

And the nothing. No movement, no affection...nothing.

He leaned back, her eyes empty and half-lidded, staring aimlessy at the ceiling. The blood did not flow, not any more.

"Jill," he pleaded, shaking her body in gentle desperation with uncharacteristic moisture in his eyes. "Jill!"

_'And you couldn't even say the words.'_

He willed the voice to stop, to speak words of comfort to him.

_'She deserves someone who will remind her every day of how wonderful she is, of how deeply she is loved. You can't even voice appreciation of the friendship you share, off all she has done for you! Loser.'_

It was impetuous and childish. It was Chris.

Suddenly, her eyes fluttered open, lips parting experimentally.

She lept.

It took all of his strength to hold her down, to pin her to the floor as she fought against him, clawing up his arms, snarling aggressively through curled lips and cloudy eyes.

No...this was not Jill.

He moved the hands that pressed her chest to the floor, and in an instant her arms were around him, teeth sinking painlessly into his neck. When they retreated, he felt flesh tear, hard tissue crunch and blood cascade from the wound. And slowly, he too fell.

Chris woke with a start.

What time was it? Where was he? Where was he _supposed_ to be?

A quick glance at the television answered all three of these pressing questions; time for The Simpsons, Jill's apartment, right where he was. Sometimes he found her sofa just too damn comfy.

He found that his heart still beat out of tune, his body seized up fearfully in anticipation of some horrid occurance. Many nightmares had plagued the hours of darkness, but none so unsettling. He had witnessed the deaths of his friends a thousand times over, ran from their lumbering corpses, and had relived almost the entirety of that night. This...this was new. This was extrapolating from existing trauma.

That monster had fallen, and Jill had turned that corner. But he had sense; he had waited and he had seen her. It was not truth that he had seen, it was fiction. Fiction that for whatever length of time he had been living it, felt traumatically real.

Valid points were brought home by her fictional death and that damn voice that seemed to be trying to provoke him into a hysterical rage. He could feel his insides contorting with confused emotions; a state they had been locked in for quite a while. So much anger, searching for a vent. So much anger, and most of it was directed at his feelings for that one woman.

Why _had_ he not spoken his feelings before? Why could he still not find the courage? Time may have been running out for them all...soon they may very well be dead. Would she die in his arms, waiting for words of comfort? Would he hold her in silence, too proud and too afraid to love her out loud, even in her last moments?

'She is as silent as I am,' he thought to himself. 'Keeps everything bottled up and won't say a damn word.'

He could see that she was hurting, and was keeping so much bottled up and carefully hidden behind a smile that convinced the others but did not sway him. She had already suffered a panic attack, was more to come?

Every morning he would pretend to have not heard crying she assumed had been done in secret.

How much longer would it be before one of them broke, and everything changed?

'Just tell her...'

The door to the small apartment opened without notice, and Jill stepped inside with no announcement of her return. She offered a smile and a smart comment about his couch potato mentality, but quickly turned to step into the kitchen.

'Talk to her.'

"How was your day?" he asked, vacating the sofa quickly yet casually.

"Oh, average," she answered as she prodded the oven controls. "We, uh...found building plans in the Anderson data. No idea what for yet, but we're working on it."

He hummed in exaggerated interest. Perhaps out of courtesy, she returned the question and he lied, as always. 'Good' had taken on similar connotations to 'boring as hell'. The more positive his response, the less compelled she seemed to be to probe into his feelings. Somehow she had the absurd idea that he was closing himself off. He got out of bed every morning, went to work, poked fun at her favourite television shows; was he supposed to spend every waking hour in tears, a nervous wreck? If this were the case, she had some nerve.

"My, uh...my father hasn't called, has he?" she asked, bracing herself against the counter with two hands.

"Nope."

"Oh."

Her eyes were suddenly downcast. She had been relucant to call her father, perhaps for the same reason he had still not called his sister. Dick had called twice since that night, and his daughter's reaction each time only served to prove how desperately she wished to speak with him. It was different for Jill; Dick was in prison, Claire was in college.

"Are you okay?" It was a question he had asked many times, and each time seemed as superficial as the last. The phrase had lost all meaning.

"I'm fine," she smiled. "Don't worry about me."

"How's the finger?"

She groaned in annoyance when he reached for her hand and carefully inspected the splint that had been forced upon it in the ER.

"I still hate you for that, by the way."

Her expression fell once again. He did not understand the guilt she felt over the events of the previous night, but he knew that it bothered her deeply.

'She wouldn't have these problems if you were actually there for her.'

"Jill, talk to me," he begged, spurred on by the unwelcome voice.

Her reaction was to walk away, avoiding the request physically as well as emotionally.

"You first," she stated. A dirty trick. "Chris, we're all going through a lot here. We're bouncing off the walls as it is, we don't need to be bouncing off each other."

Her point was valid.

"Having said that," she continued, breaking eye contact and moving to smooth down her clothing. "We're all...worried about you, Chris. What's on your mind?"

Thrown by this sudden, shift in the aim of the conversation, he balked. Something twisted within his stomach, and he knew that it was far from good.

"Kate Beckinsale," he joked, expression as serious as he could muster.

"Chris, be serious for once."

Her tone was sharp and demanding. His anger flared. Could she not appreciate a joke? She was allowed to dodge his questions but he had to face hers? How was that fair?

"You," he admitted after a moment's contemplation. At least he still had one hand at the steering wheel.

If only he could find the nerve to voice the depth to which his thoughts of her extended.

Jill paused breathlessly, severing eye contact almost painfully. Pain was not an emotion she wore well. It was merely the boundaries of decency and friendly conduct that prevented him from pulling her into his arms and hoping that it was enough to chase it away.

"Your facade doesn't fool me," he stated. "It may be your way of dealing with all this, but it's not healthy. I'd have thought last week would have proven that."

"You're right," she snarled, perhaps unintentionally. "It _is_ my way of dealing with all this, and sure, maybe it's not the healthiest way to grieve, but chain-smoking, anger and drinking yourself to liver failure is hardly appropriate, either."

Her fired-up attitude appeased the raging beast that had begun to wipe the sleep from its vengeful eyes. Why did he so crave a fight?

"What do you expect me to do, cry into my pillow every night, hoping that nobody will hear?" he snapped, ashamed of the words but horrifyingly out of control of his tongue. He wondered if she had indeed hoped that her late-night crying had gone undetected, or if she was waiting for him to call her on it and comfort her?

The falter in her expression told him that his words had frightened her. Seconds later, his cheek burned from the sting of an unexpected impact. His body told him to fight back, to protest the assault; his heart, mind and soul told him that he deserved much worse.

"How dare you?" she snarled, the forefinger of her uninjured hand thrust in in his direction. "This...this is why I don't talk to you! You insensitive _bastard_!"

A choked sob strangled her final word, eyes narrowing as lips curled downward. Her hands flew to her face, covering the damage. Even so, the moisture in her eyes did not go unnoticed.

'Are you happy now?'

He was surprised to find that the impact of his own words had hit him much harder than her insult had. His chest constricted, pain emanating from a single point and spreading throughout his tensed body. He would have knocked out any other man who spoke to her in such a way. He had wanted her to fight back, to challenge his anger...he had not wanted this, had never wanted this.

He reached for her as she turned from him, gripping her arm as she attempted to flee.

"Let go of me!" she screamed, pulling easily from his grip. She need not have bothered. The simply touch of her skin to his was enough to force him to sever all physical contact.

Something flared in the very depths of his soul, overpowered the beast and held it in place. Cut off from all reasoning for lashing out, there was nothing to buffer the shame and agony of watching her reel from his poison.

Then, her expression softened, the tears that had been on the brink of falling drying up. Had she noticed the change? He fought for control of his wayward feelings, going so far as to lie to himself about how much he cared about the girl; anything to bring back the dragon. Anger was a good shield, and much easier to deal with.

"Chris..."

The beast had effectively been neutered. He would never hurt her, and now that he realised just what his anger made him capable of, he seemed incapable of directing anger towards her. A stupid defence mechanism.

"This isn't you," she pleaded. Her distance remained wary; did she think that he would strike her? Never.

A hand came to rest unexpectedly on his arm, feelings that were nothing more than carnal nigh on consuming him. Words came to his throat; three little words that told everything that was within his heart.

Stubbornly, he shook her hand away. As luck would have it, the words fell safely back into his heart, behind steadfast iron doors that he remained far too afraid to open.

"Chris, just-"

"Don't!" he warned as she reached for him again.

"You wanted to talk," she spoke, voice falsely calm and still shaking. "Talk. You can't keep-"

"I can't keep what, Jill?" Though not quite as potent as before, a certain something reared its ugly head. She was intrusive, and intrusion fuelled the fire. "I can't keep running and hiding?"

"You can't keep taking your anger out on everyone around you!" she seethed. Her hand slid up his arm, across the exposed skin of his upper arm. It was comforting in ways she would perhaps never know. She was lethal to him; eating him alive, slowly from the inside out. In a deeply masochistic way of speaking, he enjoyed the pain of loving her. If only he found the nerve to seek the only cure he knew of; confession.

"I said don't!" he cried desperately, pushing her physically away.

It all happened in an instant, but to him it felt like so much longer. Her shoulders moved back from the force of his shove, fingertips slipping from his arm. She could not move fast enough to adjust her stance and brace herself for the impact, and her recovering ankle bent beneath her.

She was on the floor before he realised what he had done. A sharp, pained cry crippled what was left of him, her injured hand slamming forcefully against the carpet.

Shamefully, he could not bring himself to speak. She did not move, remaining in shock on the floor, nursing her injury with tears in her eyes.

"Jill..." he spoke quietly, willing his hand to aid her in rising to her feet. For all the will he could muster, his hands did not move, but remained uselessly by his side.

"I'm sorry."

Jill rose of her own accord, not a single attempt made to push her fallen hair from her face. He waited impatiently. Should he reach out to offer her comfort in a tender touch?

Within moments she had steadied herself, hair fixed as much as was possible, clothes pulled back into position. All the while she did not look him in the eye.

"You need to sort your head out Chris," she muttered, voice barely audible from the weight of the emotion in her words. "Until then, don't...don't speak to me."

She was gone in an instant, jacket and bag following her through the front door.

Chris remained in shocked silence, the weight of his actions pressing down upon him.

'What have I become?'

* * *

Carver's Late Night Diner was far from Rebecca's idea of a productive night, especially alone. Strangely enough, it seemed to be the only place where her thoughts could be heard above the din of unfriendly silence. The Anderson data was proving particularly difficult to wade through; Brad believed that data lay encrypted below the level that they were accessing, but could not quite work out how to get at it. Cue many jokes about the exaggeration of his abilities and Brad's insistance that he had not seen anything like it before.

Midnight loomed ahead of her when the staff began to execute their closing down rituals, and she took this as a sign to pack up her papers and leave. Little thought had been given to exactly how she would get home at that hour.

"Would it be possible to send someone out to Carvers? Forty-five minutes? No, no, that's no good. Thanks anyway."

She forced her cellphone back into her pocket with a scowl.

"Useless cab companies," she grumbled. What was she to do? Midnight was fast approaching; the others would no doubt be asleep by now. She could not trouble them to drive her home, not when all but Barry lived on the opposite side of the city to her inconveniently-located apartment.

She approached the dark street cautiously, mentally mapping out the route to the nearby bus station. Surely _something_ ran this late.

With hesitant steps, she moved, alert to her surroundings in a cautious yet not overly paranoid manner.

'This is going to take forever,' she thought to herself. The sidewalk wound round several buildings, doubling the length of her journey. Yet on the way stood perfectly usable alleyways. Not too dark, not too narrow. As long as she picked up the pace she could be out the other side in a couple of minutes, shaving at least five off her journey time.

'Mom and dad would have a fit if they could see me now.'

With a nervous glance over her shoulder, she stepped into the darkness, walking as fast as she felt capable of.

Something pricked at her senses, her body tensing up fearfully as she sensed a presence nearby. She spun around. Nothing.

'Get a grip on yourself, girl,' she willed.

"Rebecca Chambers?"

She jumped, visibly and audibly. Her hand moved instinctively to the firearm she kept concealed beneath her lightweight jacket.

"W-who's asking?" she stammered, ashamed in the knowledge that any one of the others would have fought the stranger or ran off by now.

She could not see his face, but knew that he was taller than her, bulkier and likely more than capable of overpowering her.

Before she had time to even blink, she found herself against the wall, screaming for all it was worth. His hand pressed against her throat, a silver blade catching the moonlight as it was raised to her cheek.

"Someone who thinks you _freaks_ need to keep your mouths shut," he snarled. The sharp edge of the blade drew blood at her cheekbone before finding it's way to the corner of her lips, poised in a dangerously threatening position.

Her heart beat furiously, adrenaline sending mixed singles to every area of her body. Fear did not even cut it.

"I would love to see you talk after this," he laughed. "Let this be a message to you and your friends."

His elbow raised, eyes alight with gleeful concentration.

She kicked. It was all she felt able to do. It was also in this that she found an advantage to her small height; the level at which her foreceful thrust met with his body. It was too much for any man to tolerate and the knife fell to the concrete, the stranger doubling over in pain.

Adrenaline surged with a purpose now. The knife was kicked to a safe distance, another well-timed kick halting his effort to grab onto her clothing. Another kick was not so lucky, and her assailant pulled her legs from beneath her, resulting in a painful and disorienting fall to the ground.

"Aw hell, I'm gonna kill you anyway," the man cried, landing several forceful kicks to her abdomen before turning to recover his lost weapon.

A few seconds was all she needed to draw her weapon, and to fire a shot into the thick flesh of his calf. The crack of the gunshot echoed painfully around the alley, a violently agonised scream joining it in morbid harmony. She did not wait to check the damage.

She ran, as fast as her legs would carry her, blinding pain pulsing through her abdominal muscles. She had no time to check for injuries.

But where was she going? Where had she even run to?

She continued on, unfamiliar signs and buildings rushing past her until the sights became a little more familiar. She was nowhere near the bus station, had likely put even more distance between herself and her destination.

Richard's old apartment complex came into view. No good; Bridgette had left town. Chris lived several blocks east, but he had not slept there for weeks.

Suddenly, her destination became obvious. Not for a split-second did she cease her Olympic-level sprinting. Her speed amazed her; why had she never been this fast in high school?

Her target building grew larger, a lone woman walking from her car to the door.

'Please don't hurry,' she begged as she watched a key enter the lock.

As luck would have it, she reached the doorway before the woman stepped through and darted in ahead of her, scaring the poor woman half to death. At that moment, she found it hard to care. She was numb, to both pity and fear. She assumed that it was the adrenaline.

The stairs almost crippled her, but soon she stood on the correct floor, and began to hammer on the door she hoped belonged to a friend.

The deadbolt slid across, chain rattled, key twisted...she fell into the apartment before Jill could offer a greeting.

"Lock the door!" she cried, several feet away from the doorway before Jill realised she had even crossed the threshold. "Lock the door!"

Chains, bolts and other various means of security slid into place and slowly, her senses were once again attuned to her surroundings.

As a hand was raised to her open mouth, she felt wetness against her fingertips. All this time and she had not felt the tears her body had shed. She fell into Jill's arms when they were offered, frantic in her search for assurance that she was not alone.

"Rebecca, are you alright?" Jill asked softly. The simple sound of her calm, soothing voice was enough to remedy her tremors. "What's wrong? What happened?"

Blood that had rushed to her head settled back into its usual flow and she found that she was able to loosen her grip on her friend, though not on the comfort her warmth provided.

"I was...walking home," she gasped.

"At this time?" Jill was visibly shocked. "Rebecca, don't you know how-"

"I do now," she interrupted, swallowing the bitter taste that had come to her mouth. She found that words fell easily from her lips; an explanation for her skittish behaviour. Jill listened intently, calming her when recent memories brought her close to hysteria.

When the last syllable left her thoughts, the adrenaline dispersed and she could do nothing but cry out the remainder of her tears. The severity of the situation became dangerously apparant to her. She could have _died_.

"You said he knew your name?" Jill asked, her voice not quite as steady as it had been moments ago. Rebeca nodded in confirmation. "Shit..."

"You think it was-?"

Jill said nothing, but met her fearful gaze with one of helplessness.

"It was only a matter of time," she whispered.

Rebecca fell onto her backside, trembling fingers held at the level of her lips. It took every ounce of strength left within her to keep her fingernails away from her chattering teeth. There was no need to slip back into old habits.

"It's not safe..." she muttered.

Would they be free to go anywhere now? Or would Umbrella pounce? They had to have recognised the break-in as the work of the renegade S.T.A.R.S.; why else would they strike now?

"Breathe slowly," Jill instructed. For the first time since her arrival, Rebecca detected a hint of sadness in her voice. "I'll get you a glass of water then I'll find you some pyjamas. I'm probably a size bigger than you but they should be alright for sleeping in."

Rebecca swallowed her dreadful anticipation; at least she was not being sent back to an empty apartment. Had she truly believed that her friend and comrade would send her on her way after such an experience?

Jill returned with the promised water and an offer of a more comfortable seat, but she had grown quite accustomed to the soft carpet at that point. She was not sure that her legs would support her weight just yet.

"Where's Chris?" she asked, noting that he had not appeared after she had made such a scene. Surely he could not have slept through it all?

Jill's gaze dropped to the floor, and she seadied herself in her lowered position.

"He...We argued earlier," she explained sadly. "I stormed out and when I came back all his things were gone and his keys were on the side. I think it's safe to say he's not coming back."

Through her receding terror and newfound fondness for her older teammate, Rebecca felt a wave of sorrow fall upon them both. Somehow, she had thought that living in such close proximity would bring the two partners together. She could barely touch upon the love Chris felt towards Jill; it would have taken something serious in a most earth-shattering way to force him to return home and leave her on her own.

Their relationship was complex, that was for sure.

Jill hissed in sharp pain as she attempted to use her bandaged hand to steady her posture.

"Let me have a look," Rebecca requested. She reached out tentatively, twitching slightly as Rebecca applied minimal pressure to her healing finger.

The young medic frowned; it was still set but appeared to have been aggravated. Jill had obviously not been taking her advice and resting her hand until it healed adequately.

Then, something caught her eye. A faint purple blemish on her wrist; surely the result of trauma. Pieces began to fall together in her mind, a horrifying picture constructed as a result.

"Jill, what-?" she began.

"It's nothing," she excused, retracting her arm.

"Did Chris...?"

Jill looked up suddenly, horrified by what her words implied.

"I fell," she insisted. "It was as much my fault as it was his; I grabbed him, he pushed, I lost my balance."

Suddenly Chris's reasoning for what he would have referred to as 'abandoning' Jill became clear. His temper had scared most of them; she doubted that it was a gentle nudge that sent her to the ground.

"Jill, I-"

"Don't," Jill requested. "It was nothing, and what just happened...Rebecca, you were _attacked_. Chris and I fight all the time, and I assure you I give as good as I get."

Of course...the attack. It seemed absurd that she should forget such a recent, traumatic occurance, but somehow her mind was attempting to push it where it could do no harm. Now that the memories were once again fresh in her mind, she preffered the sweet serenade of ignorance.

"You need sleep," Jill urged. "We will talk in the morning. I'll take you to pick up some clothes and you can stay with me for as long as this takes."

She thanked her quietly; it made no sense for either of them to be alone, not now that Umbrella had become active in their means of silencing them.

It transpired that Jill had been correct; her pyjamas were a little on the loose side, but comfortable nonetheless. She settled into the soft bed of the guest room, finding that she could smell Chris against the sheets, and the distinctive scent of hair gel against the pillows. Jill took to the shower once she was certain that her new roommate had settled down. Though she did not know why, Rebecca found herself sneaking into the master bedroom whilst it had been temporarily vacated and exchanging the pillows for those that had been in the guest bedroom.

There was little chance of her sleeping that night, though she believed that at least Jill deserved to rest well. Somehow, she thought the pillow would help.

**AN - Please review :)**


	6. Dawn On A Funeral Day

**Strength Through Wounding**

**AN -** I know I say a lot of chapters are fillers, but I truly mean it with this one. There's usually a few chapters that stand out as 'big' ones to me, and for this story those are last chapter and the next chapter. Which brings me to another point. I know that I initially said that this was a prequel to Only Through The Pain. I may have to say forget that. When I was writing the plan, there were two directions the story could go from next chapter. Some details work better if it goes one way, some work better if it goes the other but ultimately the general theme remains more or less the same, as does the conclusion. It all boils down to one detail. I am leaning towards the direction that pulls this right out of Only Through The Pain canon so at the moment I am going to say that this has become a standalone, because I think that direction works a lot better :). I had also intended to write a trilogy, with this being the first, Only Through The Pain being the third and having a sequel to this. I've been rethinking the sequel and it also works much better with the deviation. So, out of curiosity, how many people would like to read a sequel to this? It would likely just be another 'short', centred around the end of Umbrella/start of the BSAA.  
Chapter title is from a song by Tsunami Bomb.

The Valentine's oneshot is progressing, though I did consider scrapping the Chris/Jill one I planned and writing a Leon/Claire story. I will be away Valentine's weekend so it may be a day or two late, but assuming I get it finished, it will be up. For those who are interested, it is a sequel to Only Through The Pain, set 9 months after the epilogue.

Once again, thank you to my reviewers: **Kenshin13, Sparkle Valentine, KT324, xSummonerYunax, tek, Ligadorra, cjjs **and **Crazy Flasher.** I know I keep saying I will reply...and I am actually going to this time! That is, assuming the inbox isn't being difficult this time. So thank you for continuing to read and leaving your thoughts, I really do enjoy reading what you have to say.

_**Chapter Five** - Dawn On A Funeral Day_

_'Knowing your own darkness is the best method  
for dealing with the darkness of other people'  
_~Carl Jung~

******_August 13, 1998. 7:27am_**

Jill was not sure if it was the heat that woke her or the absurdly loud ticking of the clock. It barely even registered in her mind that it was still dark; an unusual habit for half seven in the morning. The sheets clung to her limbs, as usual. She did not know why she still bothered to use them. Raccoon was experiencing what the weather channel had begun to refer to as a 'heat wave', and so temperatures were climbing obscenely high for that time of year.

Movement stirred beside her, a figure perched on the edge of her bed, pulling jeans onto bare legs. It was a figure she recognised, from the mess of hair atop his head to the muscular definition in his back.

She had barely registered that she was naked beneath the sheets, shamefully uncovered behind him. Something told her that it was nothing he had not already seen. True to her thoughts, she recalled their antics and found that an uncharacteristic blush rose to her cheeks.

"Chris..." she whispered tentatively. He froze, pausing but not turning.

She could not remember any spoken words, could not even remember how they came to be together. Was this a dream? The thought crept upon her but she refused to entertain it. If it was she was not sure that she wanted to wake.

Chris turned at last, a half-hearted smile offered for her sake. She was open to him when he kissed her, and responded with passionate enthusiasm. Her stomach twisted painfully, mind trying hard to ignore the fingers that danced once again up her ribcage. He was so gentle in his passion, so caring in his touch. Why did she ever deny loving this man?

Without warning, he ended the kiss, grimacing from the force of some untold emotion. Before she could protest, he rose to finish dressing himself and moved with determined steps towards her bedroom door.

"Chris!" she protested, hurt by his seemingly uncaring attitude.

He turned sadly, offering her not one scrap of comfort.

"You always knew I would leave," he told her with a weak smile.

And with that, he was gone. No longer so much as a presence.

Jill pulled the covers around her, knees drawn in to her chest. She had not the energy to chase him down, something heavy pinning her to the spot. Her lungs were empty, her heart unable to recall the pleasure of moments passed.

'He...left?'

Was she simply another of his conquests; a night he found amusing and nothing more? The sheets alone were not enough to cover her shame. Her skin crawled with regret and grime that no shower would remove.

She knew how it felt to be used, but this was different. The pain was _physical_.

A stronger part of her mind pushed against the hurt, and she found herself breaking the invisible bonds. She found the robe inside the ensuite and pulled it tight against her, legs and breath shaking with every movement. He had no right to treat her like this, and before regret set in she was determined to make this known.

The living room was empty when she came to it, the only light emanating from the television set that spewed static into the calm. The silence was unusual and seemed to emphasise the unnatural darkness. Why was it so dark?

"Chris?" she called, arms instinctively drawn to her chest at the mention of his name.

Silence.

"Chr-"

Something dropped. A thud against carpet, just beyond the sofa. What the hell was he playing at?

Despite the repeated self-assurance that this was just an extended punch line of an incredibly sick joke, fear pricked at every exposed inch of her. She suddenly became very aware that it was dark, and that she stood in the middle of her apartment naked, save for a simple flannel robe that covered her.

"Chris?" she whispered, more desperate this time. The door swung open on its hinges, an unnatural draught breathing through her apartment. She was sure that she could hear voices upon the gust, whispers in the wind.

A sliver of light caught a small puddle on the floor, illuminating the shape but not the colour. It could have been coffee, it could have been syrup, but whatever it was it was not supposed to be there.

She was tentative in approaching the sofa, noting that the spill originated from beyond it's position. There was something unnatural about the air, something funereal and haunting. It took an unprecedented measure of strength to keep on track and not tempt her to flee back to the relative safety of her bedroom.

"Chris, is that-?" Her voice was cauterised by a scream, splitting every particle of air around her.

It was not coffee, it was not syrup...it was blood. Blood that flowed thick and fast from a body that lay crumpled at the foot of the sofa.

The chill that had settled in her throat spread throughout her body, crippling her lungs. Her legs gave way, and she crashed down beside the body, knees slipping against the river.

"Chris..." she gasped.

His throat had been cut, skin puckered outwards, glistening grimly in the dim light. Glassy eyes reflected the glare from the television, and all the while she refused to breathe.

Her hand slid up his torso, gripping his damp T-shirt. He had been unarmed, no signs of a struggle.

Tears fell from her lashes, though feeling did not accompany them. She was not distraught, not afraid...just numb. She could not feel her chest let alone the emotions she was sure were slowly ripping it to shreds. He couldn't be dead, he couldn't be gone...

As her fingers fell to the pool at her knees, she felt that it was cold to the touch. Cold was improbable, perhaps even impossible. Blood was warm, this was-

"I'm dreaming," she theorised with some relief. "I have to be dreaming..."

Strange, it seemed, how this assertion seemed to be almost a plea. Her eyes closed, she fought against the fear and willed herself to wake.

When they opened, his corpse remained; an empty shell clad in clothing stained red from the blood that saturated the fabric.

'Wake up, Jill.'

He felt real to her, and every time that she considered this fact it pushed the possibility of a dream farther and farther from her mind.

"Wake up!" She found herself screaming into the empty room, fist pounding against his chest.

"Jill!"

Something incredibly hard slammed against her forehead, sheets knotted around flailing limbs. Before she could register what exactly had occurred, she fell backwards onto something soft and slightly damp.

"Oh..." someone groaned in a distant voice.

'Bed...'

For a few long moments, she was lost in her dream, unsure if she had actually woken or simply slipped into a different scenario. Light entered the room through two windows, make up and skincare products scattered haphazardly across her dresser...yes, this was her room, and judging from the unsettling pain that had now spread across her forehead, she most certainly was not dreaming.

"Damn, you have a hard head," Rebecca complained as she hoisted herself up onto the large bed, swaying precariously on the edge of the mattress. She nursed a similar wound and rubbed at the blush of an upcoming bruise with medically explorative fingertips.

Suddenly, everything fell into place.

"I am so sorry," Jill apologised. Her hands flew to her friend's cheeks, though she knew not what she could do to ease her pain. "Are you alright?"

"Yesterday you backhand me, today you head butt me?" Rebecca chuckled. "Would living with you be classified as a 'hazardous activity'? Because I don't think my insurance covers that."

Jill grinned awkwardly. The girls had become nigh on inseparable in the time since Rebecca's unfortunate encounter, though this newfound closeness had brought forth occupational hazards for both. Rebecca's seemingly innate clumsiness resulted in the destruction of several items of crockery and a subsequent ban on washing the dishes, whereas Jill's often violent reaction to anything that caught her off guard resulted in a number of minor injuries sustained by the medic. In the end, they had learned to work around each other's shortcomings and had developed quite a harmonious living environment in the short space of a week. Of course, there was the pressing issue of nightmares that had resulted in a few sleepless nights in front of the television set.

On many occasions, Jill had regretted her last words to Chris. The fall was not entirely his fault, and she could not help but wonder if she had overreacted. After all, she had been in shock for quite some time following the altercation. He continued to show up in the office every day, though rarely had a word to say to any of them. It had gone largely unnoticed, what with the new information pertaining to a laboratory facility beneath the city forcing them to work long, lonely hours, but she could not help the extra attention that she threw in his direction. He was insufferable, and had fallen into a pattern of almost anti-social behaviour. Always on edge and with a cigarette between his lips; her worry for him had only increased in the days he had been gone.

Loathe though she was to admit it to herself, she missed him. Why would he not talk to her? Was he afraid? Had he taken her order a little too literally? She may have warned him away from social contact, but she would always be there to listen if he needed to talk. Surely he knew that?

'He made it pretty damn clear he didn't want to talk.'

"Are you okay?"

She looked up, nodding absent-mindedly.

"Yeah," she replied, though she was unsure if she was being truthful. "Thank you for waking me."

_"You always knew I would leave."_

Chris's voice echoed in her mind. It was not a nightmare she was unfamiliar with; ever since his departure he had returned to her in dreams, only to leave as abruptly as he had entered. Each and every time, she had been afraid.

Afraid that he would never return again. That she would never wake up.

Was that how she truly felt? Her pride told her that no, it was not. Her heart, mind, and every other aspect of her being, down to the soul that felt awfully empty these days, told her that she _was_ afraid. She had pushed him away in the past and he had returned each and every time. But everything had changed. Any one of them could die at any moment, and she wanted nothing more than to apologise and to set the record straight, lest they find themselves without further opportunity.

Life was looking too short these days to hold grudges.

If only somebody would tell that to her pride.

* * *

"How is it going?"

Barry looked up from his work to find Rebecca's eager eyes scrutinising the monitor.

"Don't ask," he grumbled in response, fingers travelling through the mess his beard had become. "This thing is huge, and I mean _huge_. Covers the majority of downtown Raccoon. Infiltration is impossible, and damn foolish with every Umbrella employee likely baying for our blood."

"Intelligence?" she pressed.

What good would it do? Anything they found would be inadmissible unless they had one hell of a case. At present all they possessed were several far-fetched accounts of what basically amounted to a Halloween fantasy and questionable evidence that had been gathered illegally.

"It would be possible," he admitted. "We have enough bases to dig further into, but I doubt we would find much of use. Then there's time..."

Barry found it difficult to keep his thoughts focused on the task at hand, his mind wandering to his family on more occasions than was perhaps appropriate.

The mysterious van remained around the girls' school, and Kathy had begun to complain of similar attention at her workplace. It was enough to push him towards anaylsis of surveillance data, as opposed to the examination of the new laboratory, which had been the group's largest priority since its discovery. Recent memos had been frightening to say the least; increased surveillance and abuse of CCTV in the streets around the R.P.D. building and the several blocks between Chris and Jill's apartments, not to mention the activity within his own neighbourhood.

It was only a matter of time before something pushed and Umbrella made their move. One thing he knew for sure was that he wanted his family out of the way when it came to that.

"You might want to take a look at this," he whispered, turning the monitor further in Rebecca's direction and opening a saved file.

She blinked at the new flurry of pages, muttering the words that she read beneath her breath.

"West Elmwood Correctional Facility?" she repeated, louder this time. "Umbrella is branching out into law now?"

"Not exactly," Barry sighed sadly. "I checked the area around the facility and the nearest airport; Umbrella is watching it all. Fortunately West Elmwood sources from rival companies, so Umbrella would never physically be able to get inside, but they're there alright, and they're waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

The thought pained him every time he was forced to consider it. The safety of his own family was forever on his mind; he could not help but to empathise with those who shared his burden.

"Dick Valentine is currently serving time at West Elmwood," he explained. "They're waiting for Jill."

Rebecca found that she was breathless, and that she could not for the life of her think of a coherent response.

"You might want to call your parents, Rebecca," Barry told her, as serious as she had ever seen him.

Her silence pained him, and so did the necessity of his suggestion. Umbrella had kidnapped and tortured Lisa and Jessica Trevor purely because of their relationship to George; he could not bring himself to consider what they would do to the families of the surviving S.T.A.R.S. members.

Straight-thinking was not an ability he had been blessed with as of late, but Barry found himself clinging to a small promise of clarity and reached for his cell phone.

"What about Claire Redfield?"

Barry chuckled, though it was devoid of humour. Claire had been his top priority when investigating Umbrella's movements. Though barely older than Rebecca, Claire was as feisty as Chris and Jill put together. While he did not deny that she was capable of looking after herself, he also did not deny her propensity for causing trouble. Had they so desired, Umbrella could have taken her out quite easily.

"Umbrella's presence in New York is not exactly significant," he revealed. "Surveillance around NYU is normal and there are no signs of suspicious activity. Last I heard, she was surrounded by bikers and men any brother should be worried about, so she's well protected."

Even Rebecca laughed at the last addition. Though laughter could not break the sombre mood and Barry bowed his head once it had subsided.

"Check your family, Rebecca," he repeated. "Tell them to be careful."

* * *

Though almost a month had passed since the deaths of Bravo team and Joseph Frost, the friends they had left behind had not yet faced the gruelling task of clearing out the lockers of the deceased. It was a job none of them had wanted to volunteer for, a job that would hammer the final nail into each empty coffin.

They were not ready to face the truth, not yet.

Jill was the first to consider the contents of said lockers; knowing the guys, at least one of their lockers would be a fungal breeding ground by now. It was slowly becoming less of a funereal task and more of a health and safety concern.

She had sought Chris in assisting her with the reluctantly-adopted duty, but as usual her partner was nowhere to be seen. Cigarette butts emitted the usual charred odour from his makeshift ashtray, but the man himself was never within sniffing distance.

On the rare occasions she had seen him about the building, he had been in an incredible hurry, mind not quite with the body that carried it. How was it that he always seemed to be so hard at work? He had shunned the duties the rest of them had adopted; Rebecca to medical research, Barry to personnel data, Brad to the data they had yet to decode and herself to the new laboratory. She was fortunate enough that Barry had extended the most generous offer of help, as the largest task had fallen to the only partnership left within S.T.A.R.S. and one half of that partnership was largely AWOL.

"This was all I could find," Brad apologised, holding two small, collapsed boxes before her. "Seems they recycled yesterday and deliveries don't come for another two days. Always with the inconvenience, huh?"

She smiled warmly, accepting one box and patting him on the shoulder.

"It's alright," she sighed. "To be honest, I'm not expecting to find much. Thank you for helping with this, I really appreciate it."

Brad shrugged awkwardly; he was never any good at accepting compliments.

"It wouldn't be fair to let you do this alone," he insisted.

She agreed with the thought, and wished that the other team members had shown as much interest. Even Rebecca and Barry seemed too busy to talk today.

"Well...I suppose we should..." Words failed her. Neither of them wanted to face the unwanted emotion they knew would be brought forth, but they had been left with little other choice.

It was time to face reality.

As doors opened nearby, a handful of familiar faces milled around them, each one staring resolutely ahead in an attempt to avoid looking them in the eye. It was a courtesy that had been extended to them ever since that night by all but a few employees. When a casual "Hey, Officer Valentine, Officer Vickers" was thrown their way, both jumped and confirmed the event silently with one another.

"Hey, Elran," Jill greeted automatically. A relatively new employee, she was amazed that he even knew her name.

He smiled over the steaming cup he raised to the level of his chin, guarding against errant elbows; a rookie carrying coffee to his superior, such a sight was quite common those days.

She watched him walk away with steady steps, eyes falling to the cup and apparently immune to surrounding stimuli. There was no way he would have seen the figure turn the corner, and indeed he did not react until the piping liquid had spilled both onto his own arm and onto the jaw of the other person.

Jill recognised the face before the coffee had touched his skin, and she too found her mind on another plane of thought. Chris barely flinched against the contact, though he did not reach to steady the boy. She saw the fury flash in his eyes, saw the hand rise tentatively to his scalded jaw.

She could not remember the exact details of what transpired a moment later, only that his hand was a fist when it recoiled, and that a painful thud followed as it collided with Elran's nose. He was all of eighteen, fresh out of high school. There was no chance that he could hold up against a fist that had been through the Air Force and worse, the fist of a man twice his size and fuelled by unbridled anger.

"Chris!" she found herself screaming, echoing the shocked gasps of the few witnesses that had all frozen in place.

As his eyes met hers, it became evident that he had not noticed her presence. She could not be sure of how long they stood in place, eyes locked and minds racing. All she knew was that one eye closed in an unmistakeable wink, a crooked smile teasing his flushed lips.

She rushed to Elran's side once her thoughts were back in the moment, casting her less than friendly thoughts of her partner aside.

"Head back," she urged, pinching the bridge of his nose. Tears mingled with blood, skin bruised but bone remaining surprisingly intact. She had sparred with Chris on many occasions; she knew how powerful his blows could be even when restrained. There was no doubt that Elran would likely be choking down painkillers for the rest of the day.

She found the need to apologise for her partner's actions, though both Elran and the little sensibility left in her thoughts told her that she had no reason to.

Chris did not remain long enough to apologise himself; when she glanced up from the teenager's bloody face, he was nowhere to be seen.

It was a strange event in a day that already made little sense. Once Elran had regained his sense of balance, he continued unsteadily on his way, leaving her with bloodstained hands and confusion she did not know how to process.

"What the hell was that?" Brad asked once they were alone.

Jill could not answer, though she wished that she could find words to ease the mind she was sure was equally as troubled as his expression.

"Time of the month, I guess," she joked, hoping to laugh off the situation. "Just...forget about it. Let's get this done."

Brad did not say a word as they made their way to the S.T.A.R.S. locker room; a room hidden from the majority of the precinct and a most inconvenient distance from the office. It did not strike Jill as strange; Chris's behaviour had been so unpredictable lately that nothing surprised them anymore. Despite this, she felt incredible anger towards him for the virtually unprovoked assault. She had not jumped to her feet and struck a blow at him after he knocked her to the ground - though in recent days she had begun to wish that she had; something needed to be done to knock some sense into the man.

"Are you sure you want to do this now?" Brad asked once they were safe within the confines of the dismal locker room. He could not quite make eye contact and she wondered exactly how she appeared in that moment; had her thoughts translated to expression?

"Not really," she admitted, hoping that a half-truth would throw him off the scent. "But what choice do I have?"

Her words carried more weight than she had intended. It was a shame that she had begun to feel like a spare wheel when she found herself in the mood to be heavily involved in the action, so to speak. Would it have been different if the others were here?

At the very least, she would have had someone with whom to share her thoughts, someone to talk her out of her gloom. Forest had always been good at cheering her up, Joseph too.

It pained her to consider how much of their friendship she had taken for granted. Though she had never denied that her teammates were the best friends she had ever found herself amongst, she had never considered that a day would come when they would not be there. They were all so young, so professional...the job should not have claimed their lives.

She began to pick at the first lock while Brad waited for a continuation in their short-lived conversation. Forest's locker; an unconscious yet appropriate choice. The team rarely used the lockers to store items of importance, and so they had essentially become cabinets of unused and unwanted junk. Sure enough, she had barely cracked the stiff metal door when a crumpled pack of cigarettes fell to her feet.

Speyer's collection of crap continued in much the same vein; old copies of Guns & Ammo he had stolen from Barry's locker, a half-eaten burrito that was more fur than food and several empty ammunition clips. Clothes were stashed on the second shelf, and Jill was surprised to find that they were clean and soft to the touch. As she folded a black S.T.A.R.S.-issue wife beater beneath her chin the scent of detergent and Jim Beam rose up to meet her; obviously the clothes were not as clean as she had surmised.

She did not know why the scent of bourbon reminded her of her late friend, but it always had. Bourbon, cigarettes and quite often gunpowder. Motörhead and AC/DC, eighties action movies and old guitars; each friend had different but distinctive articles that made her think of them. For Joseph, it was Richard Pryor and Animal house; for Richard, crew cuts and beagles; and for Kenneth, hot chocolate and blueberry muffins.

The strange thing was that the exact same items that reminded her of Forest reminded her of Chris. The two men had been almost attached at the hip, so much so that she was startled when he claimed her to be his best friend, and not the man he spent the better part of his S.T.A.R.S. career engaging in a friendly rivalry with.

Her roaming fingers found an old cassette, one that had been written on several times in permanent marker, every title but one scribbled out; 'Camping Tunes'.

The memory hit her painfully, and her eyes fell immediately to the photographs he had pinned to the inside of the door; photographs she had tried hard not to observe.

Girlfriend, family, models...and friends. A single photograph, every S.T.A.R.S. member save Rebecca, Wesker and Edward present. She remembered the day with warm thoughts; a weekend camping trip in the Arklay forest that Wesker had sent them on as a 'team building' exercise. Of course, Wesker had conveniently chosen not to attend this exercise, though it all worked for the best. It had been autumn 1997, before Rebecca's recruitment, and inconveniently on a week Edward had been away for training. Joseph had taken to filming the S.T.A.R.S. team's every move whilst he was away, with the intention of mailing the results to the absent pilot; perhaps the tape was still around? Somehow, she doubted it. It was likely that his family had taken it when they cleaned out his apartment.

Enrico had fumbled with the self-timer of a camera that proved rather tricky to use, and eventually they had all been able to pose together around the campfire, swearing that they would take another trip together one day.

That day, unfortunately, had never come.

_"Damn, this is boring," Forest groaned, blowing a plume of smoke into the air. "Entertain me, Valentine."_

_She considered retorting defensively, but found that she shared his sentiment. While the others seemed to be enjoying the mid-afternoon row around Arklay Lake in canoes of questionable condition, her complete lack of co-ordination with the Arkansas native meant that every paddle they made only turned them round and round in dizzying circles. While they had initially found this hilarious, the novelty had soon worn off._

_"You drink all the whiskey?" she asked, keeping her voice low despite being isolated in their position on the lake._

_Forest__ grinned mischievously; a sign that hinted at the recent consumption of most of the bottle but also the relief that she had elected to share in his mild inebriation._

_He pulled the bottle from beneath his perch and handed it over with a reluctant sigh. The liquid was little relief, but the feeling of the act was enough to cheer her up a little. They had already made such a mess of this 'retreat'; why not go the whole hog? Between the late-night invasion of the alpha's tent by an explorative raccoon and the disastrous pairing of herself and the Bravo member, Jill was sure that the weekend had not gone as Wesker had intended. Kenneth continued to insist that the trip was simply a means of getting them out of his hair for a short while._

_"Having fun, ladies?" Joseph grinned as the canoe he shared with Chris glided smoothly alongside theirs. It was obvious they had not suffered the same confusing difficulties that had stranded their teammates._

_"I don't know, _are_ you?" Forest sneered humorously._

_He snatched the bottle from Jill's hand, knocking back a fair portion of the remaining liquid. When he finally pulled the bottle from his lips, his eyes were alight with foolish creativity._

_"I've got it!" he announced, rocking the boat as he suddenly rose to his feet._

_"Careful!" Jill warned, clinging desperately to the side of the canoe. Water sloshed over the side, soaking through her beaten Chuck Taylors. She was thankful only for the fact that the lake was clean._

_Forest swung one leg over the side of their canoe, resting it carelessly on the side of Joseph's. Though panic seized Jill's heart, her foolish friend began to egg on the reckless marksman as he lifted his other foot to the side of his own canoe, wobbling unsteadily with a cigarette between his lips and bottle in hand._

_"Forest, get down!" Jill screamed, clawing at his leg. "Are you out of your fucking mind?"_

_"Paddle!" he yelled. "Go! Go!"_

_It did not take a genius to foresee what came next. Both canoes lurched suddenly, Forest's legs forced apart until they could open no further and he fell, limbs flailing as he hit the surface of the water._

_The three remaining S.T.A.R.S. members were soaked to the bone, the wave sent forth by their friend's plunge surprising to say the least._

_"Forest!"_

_Jill turned immediately to the rippling water, reaching down to break the surface with her fingertips. There was no sign of stupid, careless Forest, not even a single bubble of air._

_Even Joseph and Chris fell silent, their howls of laughter fading as their amusement turned to worry._

_Then, just as she prepared to dive into an impromptu search and rescue, the water rose up to meet her, something applying enough force to the bottom of the canoe to flip it over entirely. She paddled frantically, lungs empty and burning alongside the panic that forced adrenaline into her system._

_When she finally broke the surface and found the overturned canoe, she was surrounded by laughter. Forest wiggled his eyebrows, long hair plastered to his face as he clung to the opposite side of the vessel. She could not find it in her heart to be mad at him, considering that he had finally injected some excitement into a rather dull day, even though it had been at her expense._

_So, naturally, she pushed him backwards, back into the depths from which he had recently emerged_

_"Asshole!" she shouted, laughter pulling the venom from her tone._

_"Hey, Valentine," Chris gasped through hysterics. "How's the water?"_

_"Why don't you join me and find out?" she teased. Forest surfaced once again to grasp the canoe, steadying her balance against the now-defunct transport._

_"Whatever, babe," he teased back, offering_ _a hand to help her into his canoe. It was not until she accepted this offer that he realised how foolish it had been. Whether she was punishing him for his laughter or for the "babe" comment, she did not know. What she did know was that he deserved to be in the water with her._

_When she pulled, the entire canoe tipped, and Joseph fell at his side. What she had not calculated into her plan was the direction in which Chris would fall; right on top of her. His weight pressed her deeper into the water without breath, and she clung to his T-shirt._

_"What the fuck was that for?" he fumed once they had all surfaced._

_"Call me babe again and you'll find out."_

_He pressed against the top of her head, submerging her momentarily in a friendly attack._

_It was Joseph she clung to when she resurfaced, too far from her original canoe to join in with the juvenile argument that had broken out between her partner and his rival._

_"Who said this would be boring?" Joseph laughed. He fought a little against the weight around his shoulders but settled once he levelled them both._

_"Race you back to shore?" she suggested, voice not entirely devoid of childish playfulness._

_They were followed soon by their friends, the other boats having already safely returned to shore. The warm towels and laughter that greeted them at the campsite was most welcome, though the ridiculous amount of photographs Richard began to snap was not. Jill was not entirely sure that she wanted the rest of the world to witness her in her rather dishevelled state._

_"Smile, Jill," Chris chuckled, wringing his T-shirt in his hands. "Nice bra, by the way."_

_He walked away after sharing this surprising compliment. Curious, she looked down, shocked to find that the water had turned her T-shirt entirely see-through, displaying her shamefully girly bra to the entire congregation._

_"Forest!" she growled, humiliation causing her cheeks to flush dreadfully._

_The man in question threw a towel her way, smiling perversely. She should have known better, and was left with nothing to do but to shrug off the embarrassment and dive into the tent she shared with the other Alpha team members for a quick towel dry and change._

_When she emerged, she saw that the others had already started up the campfire and held their wet T-shirts out to the crackling flames. They seemed oblivious to the fact that their lower clothing was equally as wet._

_"S'mores, anyone?" Richard called as he dug deeply into the food bag._

_"What are we, boy scouts?" Enrico jeered. Jill was forced to bite her tongue; the erection of the tents and general assembly of the camp site had proven that together they had less sense than boy scouts. Boy scouts, she surmised, would also not attempt to slip various creepy crawlies into her sleeping bag just to see if she would scream._

_She pulled several marshmallows from the waiting bag, assisting the driest of the Bravos in deciding on what lunch would be that day. Her eyes continued to drift towards the others, to Forest and his flaming T-shirt. S.T.A.R.S. had not been quite what she had imagined. Professionally, they were the most talented group of people she could remember working with, but there was something else...something that made her feel completely comfortable in the presence of these often crass men. She would do anything for any one of them, as she knew they would do for her._

_Chris smiled as she caught his eye, turning nervously away within seconds. She thought nothing of it, but found that her eyes lingered on his body a little too long. A surprising fact for the amount of fast food he shovelled down his throat, he undoubtedly possessed the best body of the entire S.T.A.R.S. team; lean, muscular, with abs she would have thought impossible for such a huge fan of beer. Her tongue darted to moisten her lips, the sight before her far more appetising than the can of pork and beans she held in her hand._

_'What the hell are you thinking?' she scolded herself as she momentarily came to her senses. 'Don't be so disgusting.'_

_Truth was that the thought no longer struck her as vile. He was sweet, caring, had one hell of a sense of humour, and was always there for her when she needed someone, even if she was not aware of this fact herself. Truth be told, he had been more thoughtful than her past few boyfriends, and more defensive when it came to her protection. Sure, she found it annoying more often than not, but it was also endearing. Beneath the macho exterior, he was a warm-hearted, strong-willed and deeply compassionate man; he was everything she needed, everything she _wanted_._

_'Check your thoughts, Valentine,' she reminded herself. While she enjoyed their regular flirtation perhaps a little more than she should have, she knew the dangers of falling in love with a colleague...of falling in love with a _friend_. He was hot, she was lonely; it was best if she left it at that._

_"At least look like you're paying attention, Jill," Richard laughed as a second can hit her thigh._

_"Yeah, we're hungry," Forest complained, wrapping an arm playfully around her waist as he pulled the pork and beans from her grasp. "Look lively, doll."_

Doll. She was sure that it was her initial irritation at the word that had pushed him to bestow it upon her as somewhat of a nickname. After all, he rarely used it to refer to another woman, save those he was close to. It was condescending at first, though he spoke it in a way that differed from her Delta Force colleagues; softer, light-hearted...she liked it.

"Jill, are you alright?"

She turned to Brad in surprise, having forgotten for a moment that he stood beside her. The tears that dripped from her jaw had gone unnoticed, though not by her comrade. He shifted uncomfortably; placing what he had hoped was a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"I know," he whispered. "Believe me, I know."

And with that, she cried.

* * *

Alone. That was exactly how Chris felt those days. Alone was how he preferred to be.

'Drawing attention to yourself like that was foolish.'

He could not disagree with himself, though part of him insisted that Elran got what he deserved. The idiot should have been watching his step.

Chris was unsure what had forced him to react so violently, only that so many days of pent up anger had been released upon the boy. He was lucky a nosebleed was all that was suffered. Had Chris's eyes not fallen on Jill moments later, he was sure that he would have dealt more than a single blow.

Jill...

The shock in her expression poured ice onto the flames of his fury. He did not quite understand the way she had begun to make him feel; calm and composed when inside he knew that he was seething. She was like an emotional blockade, preventing any anger, hatred or outwardly violent emotions from springing forth.

Perhaps it was due to the shame he still felt over their fight? He had never thought himself capable of hurting her and though he knew that he would never deliberately cause her pain, unintentional hurt was all he seemed to cause anyone these days.

It was times like these he would turn to Forest, and they would shoot away his frustration, knock back a few beers and wake the next morning to find that they were already an hour late for work.

But Forest was gone.

Chris leaned back in his chair, thankful for the fact that the office was empty; less noise clouding his thoughts.

He had known that his friends were dead, that they would never walk through that door again or mock him for whatever stupid reason they chose to latch onto that week. He had known, but had somehow not accepted it. How could they be gone? They were barely older than he was; Richard younger even. Enrico had more brains than most of Alpha combined, and Richard possessed a wider range of skills than he. Why them? Why not him?

_"At the very least I had hoped for one of you. To have you both here...it is more than I could have asked for. I did well to pair you together."_

His fingers constricted around the paper on his desk, crumpling it beyond recognition as he chased his former captain's voice from his mind.

Of course...Wesker. If his words were to be accepted as truth, they were all merely cannon fodder; combat data that he would attempt to steal for himself. All except for Chris and Jill. For whatever reason, Wesker had chosen them to provide the data for that freak of nature he had unleashed. In the end, everything had been destroyed. They had died for nothing, died for the dream of a man whose head was obviously not screwed on correctly.

'Enough. You have to focus.'

He was not sure that he trusted himself, but forward was the only way he could go. There was something here, something within this maze of unintelligible data...he simply did not know what it was. Regardless, he felt that he was close, that discovery lay just out of reach.

Voices passed through the thick walls, footsteps thudding down the corridor. How the hell could he concentrate here? Between the noise, the constant rush, and Jill... No, he would not think about Jill; not here, not now.

Carefully and quietly, he packed away all that he had collected, slipping it into a plastic bag he found on the floor beneath Jill's desk. Papers, floppy disks, hastily scribbled notes; it all went in.

His cell phone rang in his pocket, though he did not reach for it. It would be Claire. It was always Claire.

"I have to do this," he apologised to the monotonous tone. "I'm sorry."

* * *

"Are you sure about this?"

Kathy did not like the idea of moving, not one bit. She disliked the idea of moving in the dead of night even more. The thought of pulling the girls from school, of quitting her job and hiding out for the foreseeable future? It was unthinkable.

"Kathy, you have to trust me on this one," Barry urged, hands at his wife's cheeks

He agreed that the move was sudden, but it was also necessary. He wanted his family as far from danger as was possible, and would do anything to ensure their safety. Even if it meant being separated from them.

"You'll be coming with us, won't you?" she asked, desperation dripping from her words. His silence told her that this would not be so. "Then we're staying. We're _family_, Barry. I know you're going through hell right now but you know that I will stand by you every step of the way."

"Then stand by me on this one," he pleaded. "I love you, Kathy, that's why you need to go away. As long as you're with me you're in danger. The girls...I can't put them through this. I owe my friends a lot, I owe them my life. I have to put things right, I have to fight for this."

Kathy turned from her husband, hiding her face from view. He had not left her with many options, and he knew that they were all difficult to consider.

"Kathy, you have to listen to him," Rebecca tried. Perhaps a female voice would help to ease her fears? "Even if Barry chose to turn his back on all this, you would still be in danger. Relocation is the only safe option."

Barry smiled in appreciation; he had not asked Rebecca to be here, but she had offered to help and he had appreciated it.

"This house...it's in Raccoon?" Kathy clarified, now speaking clearly through her tears.

Rebecca nodded, reaching for the older woman's hand.

"It is just temporary," she assured her. "We will drive you there tonight, after dark, and then we will find somewhere more permanent for you and the girls. Somewhere out of Umbrella's reach."

Kathy looked from the girl to her husband. Barry could sense that her resolve was weakening; after all, she held the girls' safety as close to her heart as he held it to his own. She also shared in his desire to see Umbrella brought to justice, and knew that they would likely pay a high price for such justice if they remained in Raccoon.

"You have to promise me that you won't do anything reckless," she begged. "Please. I know you, Barry."

"I promise that we won't let him," Rebecca smiled. Kathy laughed with her, laughed until her tears subsided.

When she came to her husband, she came with a kiss, and he held her tightly to his tired body. Lately he had felt so drained of emotion that he was taken by surprise at the pain that stemmed from her touch.

"When you're done with this...we'll be waiting," she promised. "Always."

* * *

The paper clung to her fingertips. Who knew that toffee could mimic superglue so perfectly?

"I think he did this on purpose," she laughed. Brad attempted to peel the crisp pages from her skin, only to have them stick to his own. Joseph did not even like toffee, yet had stashed enough of it in his locker to melt over his magazine collection and make what could pass as a rather confusing piece of conceptual art.

"Two lockers in as many hours," Brad laughed. "We really need some help here."

Jill agreed, rubbing her hands up her legs to shed the sticky substance. Though Barry had promised to lend assistance once he returned from his errand, he had yet to join them

"I'll go check the office," she offered. Anything to draw her away from Joseph's joke store of a locker.

The hours had wound past in the time they had spent wading through memories; a simple clean-up task had evolved into a multi-stop trip down memory lane. The morbidity of the moment was soon forgotten and for the first time in over a month, she could safely say that her smile was genuine.

The hallways that she took back to the office stretched past Irons' lair. Straying close to their suspicious boss was something they had all had tried to avoid, but her mind was elsewhere that day.

The last face she expected to witness leaving the stuffy office was that of her partner. Even in her delirious state she was caught off guard.

"Chris!" she gasped; the first word she had uttered to him since requesting that he refrain from further communication.

His expression was weary, hair in a more chaotic mess than usual, and the bags beneath his eyes were surely a shade darker than they had been the last time she had been close enough to witness.

"Hey," he greeted nonchalantly, attention elsewhere. She barely caught his wrist as he stepped around her, making for the freedom of the main precinct.

"Chris, wait," she pleaded. Words caught in her throat, every sentiment she wished to express seeming defunct. "We, uh... We've been cleaning out the locker room. We could really do with some help, if you're free."

The hand that held his wrist drew the majority of his attention, and she suddenly relinquished her grasp. Was it too much? She felt quite desperate, both for help and for a few encouraging words from a friend who had grown far too distant in the short space of a week.

"I'm not," he told her apologetically. "Sorry."

Once again, he turned to leave. What was he trying to avoid?

"Chris!" she shouted, though the raised voice was unintended.

It was frustration that turned him around, and though she could see in every element of his stance that he truly did not wish to engage in further conversation, she felt determined to press the matter. After all, he had not even tried to fight her order of silence. Was her friendship so easy to cast aside? Did he truly think so little of her?

"Look, Jill," he sighed. "I'm sorry about what happened last week. I'm sorry that I left without explaining why and I'm sorry that I hurt you. Trust me, that is the last thing I ever wanted to do."

He moved closer, even though his body seemed to be desperately fighting the movement. She wondered how he felt in that moment, knowing that all she wanted to do was to seek his embrace and offer to share whatever burden it was that had begun to suck the life from his features. She wanted to know that they were still the same friends they had been before Wesker's betrayal.

"We both got a little fired up," she explained. "I shouldn't have pushed, but you have to-"

"Jill, I can't talk," he brushed off. "I'm taking some time off. I filed for leave and Irons just granted it. I'm sorry."

"Leave?" she repeated, unsure that she had heard him correctly. "Chris, you can't just leave us!"

"I am," was all he had to say.

His lack of concern for their progress forced anger to fester within her. How could he just walk away after all that had happened, after all they had been through? Had he not scolded Brad for the exact same thing?

"Do you even care about the others?" she demanded, all friendliness falling from the conversation. "How can you just walk away after everything- After all-"

Choking up was not something she was all that familiar with. Her emotions were always restrained before they ran too deep. Anger, hatred...even love. It seemed that once again, her emotional safeguards had failed where Chris was concerned.

"Don't you dare suggest that!" he warned, body tensing defensively. She may as well have punched him, for all the pain she dealt.

"Then why leave now? We need all the help we can get!"

She watched as he raised a hand to his hair, face contorted in a battle of conflicting emotions.

"Face it, Jill," he laughed humourlessly. "I'm no good at dealing with these things. You always knew I would leave. You all did."

She stumbled from the force of his words, the connection to her dream searing itself into every organ that functioned in that moment. He could not just leave...how would she know that he would come back? There was still so much she had to say to him, so much that needed to be put right. To separate on such a negative note was terrifying.

Images of his corpse flashed through her mind. It had been terrifying enough in dreams, but in life it tore a hole in her sanity, forcing through all that she had striven to leash.

"Then don't leave!" she screamed. The sheer force of emotion in her words shocked even herself. She never was one to lash out in blind fury; that had always been Chris's comfort zone. "Don't leave them. Don't leave _me_!"

Her final insistence seemed to hit him on a level that inflicted at least minimal discomfort. She hoped that it would be enough to convince him to stay. If there was ever a time she needed him, it was now.

"I'm sorry, Jill," he apologised one final time. "Don't call me."

It shocked her to recognise that as he walked away, a small piece of her heart broke. All that was constant in her life, all that gave her hope and told her to keep holding on was walking away. More than that, he was walking away as broken as she had ever seen him.

Pride be damned, she wanted to chase him down and beg him to share his thoughts, or to listen while she shared hers; for if she did not, she feared that she may burst.

He had been wrong, and so had his fictional counterpart; there had not been one point in the two years she had known him where she had truly thought that he would leave. He had always been there and on many occasions had promised that he always would be.

She should have known better than to believe him.

**AN - Please review :)**


	7. War Sweater

**Strength Through Wounding**

**AN - **Needless to say, I finished this a lot sooner than anticipated. Ironically, I thought this would be the shortest chapter yet and I think it's probably the longest lol. There's only a few things I want to say about this chapter.  
Re:Chris's position in S.T.A.R.S.: it made sense to me. I never saw Barry as much of a leader, and I'm sure Wesker thought the same.  
Re:the last part of the chapter: Most. Difficult. Thing. Ever. Seriously, it even underwent a last-minute rewrite. I wanted to write it from Chris's perspective, so that's what I forced myself to do and I'm kind of wondering if it was the best angle after all. I hope it came out as intended. This was actually originally just the first part of the chapter, but I split it, which made it a little more difficult to convey what I wanted, especially Jill's mood.  
Chapter title is from a song by Wakey! Wakey!.

Again, big thank you to everyone who reviewed: **cjjs, Ultimolu, KT324, Kenshin13, Sparkle Valentine, .-SnipingWolf, tek **and** xSummonerYunax.** I'll try to keep going with the replies :).

_**Chapter Six -**War Sweater_

_"I love you, I swear it, I would never lie.  
__But I fear for our lives and I fear your closed eyes."_

**__****_August 14, 1998. 8:20pm_**

Jill had lost count of the hours that had passed since Chris's sudden departure from the investigation. The others had pointed out that he had done so little work in the past week that it changed nothing, but she was not convinced. Her own morale had fallen considerably and she was sure that the others had felt it, too.

As surprising as it was, Chris was in fact the second in command of Alpha Team. It was a position Barry had politely declined when Chris had offered it to him; he had agreed with Wesker's decision, believing him to be built from far sturdier leadership material than himself. Barry had always been a follower, and had never truly felt comfortable dishing out orders. With both Wesker and Enrico dead, that left the command of S.T.A.R.S. in Chris's hands. The hierarchal structure of the group had essentially dissolved in the weeks following the deaths of the others, but they had all hoped that had the need to turn to a leader arose, Chris would rise up to the occasion. They had certainly not expected him to be the first to leave.

Though the chain of command had been unspecified following the second in command (with Edward claiming the honour for Bravo team following the disinterest of the others), Barry had pointed out that as Chris's partner, the responsibility of leadership should fall to her. The idea had frightened her considerably; she was no leader, and would truthfully not know where to begin.

She turned her attention to the answer phone in an attempt to leave her discomfort behind. The light had continued to blink for days now, though she had not found the strength to collect what waited.

"Jill, it's Claire," spoke a familiar voice. "Will you please tell my asshat of a brother to pick up the damn phone when I call? I...I'm really sorry I didn't call sooner. I know we're not close or anything, but...I can't begin to imagine what you're going through right now. Look after him, okay? And kick his ass if he doesn't do the same for you."

Yet another reason to feel anger towards Chris. It was one thing to ignore his friends, it was another entirely to ignore his sister. She loved him more than anything, and all this confusion could not have been easy for her. After the deaths of their parents, he was all she had left. It was selfish and cruel of him to keep her in the dark, even if he truly believed that it was for her own good.

"I know you said not to call," her father's voice explained through the machine. "Jill, I just want you to be careful. I could be out of here in five years, and when I am I want my daughter to be there, and I want to know that she is safe. I know I don't have to lecture you on the importance of a strong mind... You are more like your mother every time I see you, so I know that I don't have to worry about the care you take with your work. I just want you to listen more to the part of you that belonged to her. I haven't been the best father Jill, I know that, and I know I can never ask you to forgive me, but...just take more care than I did. That's all I can ask. I love you, and in case I never see you again...I just want you to know that I'm proud of you for doing the right thing. I've always been proud of you, and I never told you enough. Take care."

The urge to hit 'redial' and beg to speak to her incarcerated father was overwhelming. She was not happy with the arrangement she had agreed to; no contact, not even via telephone. The anger at Umbrella's surveillance of Dick subsided with tears that broke forth. While she had never told him, she had never once blamed him for the hell her teenage years had been following his incarceration. She was angry, both at the disease that had claimed her mother and the system that had stolen her father. He had taught her to be strong, in a way different from what her mother had preached, but equally useful. It was thanks to Dick's tutelage that she had been able to chase down and subdue the man who had stolen her friend's purse when they were sixteen, and his knowledge that had seen her gain access into many locked rooms within Spencer's hellhole of a mansion. Even the hardened attitude she had adopted since being taken in by her aunt and uncle had been attributed to her father. It was this attitude that had brought her so far in a male-dominated business; the Jill Valentine that had existed ten years ago was too weak, she would have fallen apart at the seams by now.

Strange, because she could feel this juvenile side breaking through with every blow she suffered thanks to Umbrella's destructive influence on their lives. On the outside she was a soldier, but she knew that within she was little more than a frightened child these days.

"Hey Jill, just to let you know I'm going to be a little late tonight, so don't lock me out. And don't worry, I'm at the office and Barry said he'd drive me to yours so I'll be fine."

"Great," she groaned. All that had brought her to that night was the optimistic anticipation of a night of wine, chocolate and a Friends marathon in anticipation of the upcoming season premiere.

Normal, that was what tonight was intended to be. Normal with the promise of a mild hangover the next morning.

She turned off the television and took the wine back to the fridge. There was little point in starting alone, though drunk was perhaps the most soothing way to face the world in its current state.

Work was another matter she did not wish to face; the sheer magnitude of the laboratory beneath the city was mind-boggling to consider. While she knew that it was perhaps a futile attempt, she was also aware than investigation was imperative. Though the work frustrated her, she looked to the investigation with curious eagerness.

She only wished that when the time came to move, her partner would be at her side.

* * *

Rebecca found it difficult to keep up with Barry's pace; her legs were far shorter and she did not possess the determination that seemed to propel him towards their destination.

"Slow down!" she complained. Though he did slow his steps, they were still much faster than her own.

"Sorry," he apologised gruffly. "Want to catch the bastard before he leaves."

She did not voice her assumption, which was that Irons had already left and their late-night sprint through the empty precinct was in vain. Even if they found him smoking himself to an early grave within the confines of his office, she knew that anything they said would be thrown back at them.

Barry had thought it was worth trying to get through the man's cotton-filled skull, but she was not convinced.

Surprisingly, dim light shone from beneath the door once they finally reached their destination and with a simple push - no courtesy knock - it swung open.

"Who is it?" boomed Irons' voice, slurred from the rich influence of cigars and Scotch. Perhaps fate was on their side after all, Rebecca wondered as she quickened her pace behind Barry.

"Sir, we have something you may be interested in," spoke the older man. She watched him wave the manila folder, watched Irons' eyes follow it in hazy disbelief.

"What the hell is this?" he demanded. "You think you can just barge into my office? I'll have you all suspended!"

Smooth as always. Once again, Rebecca's mind dwelled on the futility of the endeavour and the foolishness of handing evidence to the one man who would be sure to destroy it. Fortunately, Barry had seen enough sense to withhold the most sensitive and powerful information, lest their suspicions prove true. The last thing they wanted was to go to the courts only to find that word had travelled back to Umbrella and all that their evidence proved had been destroyed, hidden or moved.

"You told us to report back to you if we ever found evidence to support our allegations," Barry announced, somewhat smugly. They had always known that Irons was simply mocking them when he offered this 'support'. "Well here you go."

The folder slapped against the surface of Irons' desk, the sound bouncing off the joylessly decorated walls. All Irons could do was stare at the offending item, perhaps hoping that it would burst into flame and the insult would be gone.

"You're joking?" he asked. Everything was a joke to Irons, especially where work was concerned.

"No sir," Rebecca spoke up, boldly stepping forward. "Summative employee reports, but they provide the basis for at least a low-grade investigation. There is evidence of illegal procurement of bacteriological specimens, which would be cause for concern for customs if little else. Unlicensed experimentation, severe violations of the Nuremberg Code as well as the Declaration of Helsinki and blatant ignorance of international trading laws."

Though she was sure that Irons had not understood a word of this, she could not help but to smile at her newfound confidence. Living with Jill had proved beneficial to her working ethic. Despite this, she was growing concerned for the confidence levels of her friend; at first it seemed as though her strength had merely been rubbing off on the medic, but lately she had began to wonder if she had been draining her completely.

Was it simply a side of Jill she had not been given the chance to see in the office environment? Whatever it was, she knew that Chris was not far from the cause.

'Perhaps it's best that love stays far away from me,' she surmised.

Irons began to leaf slowly through the pages of the file. It was comprised mainly of medical reports and internal memos; benign evidence, the best kept for the big guns. Barry had not understood a word of most of it, and Rebecca was sure that the same could be said for the chief.

"This is ridiculous," Irons laughed, more confident than they had expected. "You think this will support your case?"

"It's a start," Barry pressed. It was obvious that they took corners much like boxers would, and she could only wait for the bell to ring.

Irons leaned forward on his desk, levelling his eyes at his employee.

"You have no idea what you're messing with," he told them. "You think you can push and it won't snap back in your face?"

Suddenly defensive, Rebecca was ashamed to find that she stepped closer to Barry's shadow, shrinking away from the oversized desk. Though she knew not to take any threat from the cowardly man seriously, something in his tone at least suggested malice.

"Sir?"

"I was not merely being appropriate when I told you that no lawyer in this city would represent you," he smiled. "This information is insubstantial, inadequate and I have half a mind to arrest you now for search without a warrant."

"Damn it, Irons, you know as well as I do that there is something going on here," Barry growled, eyes now level with the chief's. "You may want to reach inside and grab hold of that one shred of your soul that still possesses an ounce of decency and pursue this, whatever your obligations to Umbrella may be."

Irons was visibly stunned by his words, eyes shrinking to pinpricks, the general impression of a startled animal striking the two colleagues.

"If it's money that you want, I'd wager the reward for revealing a conspiracy this profound would be _substantial_," Barry continued in his 'off the record' voice. "Far more than whatever Umbrella is slipping you."

Beady eyes darted away from his threatening form, as though considering for a moment the proposal that had been laid before his greedy mind. Rebecca knew that it was a futile attempt at persuasion, but found it mildly amusing how Irons' corrupt mind could not tune out an offer of this scale. It made her ever more eager to hear what excuse he would offer.

"You just don't get it, do you?" he sighed, drunken façade falling fast. "Umbrella is untouchable; there is nothing you can do. If you caught them with their pants down, you'd still lose. You'll be dead before it hits the courts."

A deeply unsettling chuckle reverberated through his tar-lined chest.

"There is nothing you can do."

* * *

**_August 15, 1998. 12:05am._**

Darkness greeted her pupils when lids slid open. The incessant ring of her telephone was jarring to newly-awakened ears, but she registered it nonetheless.

'Back to flashbacks, I see,' her thoughts interrupted sardonically, recalling a nightmare she hoped to forget.

Whoever was calling would just have to wait. Nobody called anymore, especially not at an hour that would rouse her from sleep.

Despite her clear thoughts on the matter, her hand reached groggily for the handset, lifting it from its cradle with the intention of telling the caller where to go and dropping it to the ground. Another intention, it seemed, that did not live up to its promise.

"Hello?" she groaned into the mouthpiece. Whoever it was, they had better be prepared to offer a damn good reason for waking her.

"Jill?"

Suddenly, they had her undivided attention.

"Chris?" she asked in disbelief, suppressing a yawn. After so little contact, he chooses to call her in the middle of the night? It seemed that beggars truly could not be choosers. "What do you want? It's...Chris, it's after midnight."

"I know," he admitted. He seemed off; unsure and unsettled. Was he drunk? It would not be the first time he had drunk-dialled her. "Jill, we need to talk."

"Chris, it's after midnight," she repeated. The handset now rested almost uselessly against her head. She was sure that she would fall back asleep mid-conversation.

"I know," he insisted, more impatient this time. "It's important. Can you come over?"

"Now?" she groaned, the persuasive call of sleep almost lulling her away from the conversation. "Chris, it's-"

"After midnight, I know. I'm sorry if I woke you, but this is _really_ important and you're the only person I know I can trust with this. Please."

There was something desperate in the way he pleaded that acted like a stimulant to her overtired body. She knew that it was purely business, but her heart convinced her for the smallest fraction of a second that he was calling her over because he missed her, and simply wanted to see her.

"Alright," she relented. "Give me half an hour to get dressed and find my car keys."

As she returned the phone to its original position she realised that this would be no easy feat; she was sure that the car keys had been left with Rebecca.

Every limb seemed ridiculously heavy, and the glare from her bedside lamp was painfully loud. She did not know from where gathered the energy to pull herself into a pair of jeans and underwear, never mind rifle through her T-shirt drawer for something that was not wrinkled beyond belief.

The apartment remained silent, with no sign of the door being locked from the inside; Rebecca had not yet returned home. Casting her concern aside, she repeated the fact that wherever she was, she was with Barry and therefore she was safe. The girl had being working herself to exhaustion lately, and Jill would not have been surprised if she remained at the office, poring over some case file or another.

She checked her jacket, her firearm and her holster, and with weary anticipation she stepped out into the night.

* * *

The unsuccessful meeting had put both Rebecca and Barry in a painfully foul mood. A simple re-arrangement of files within the office had led to a mutual rant that stretched over multiple hours. When the clock hands finally struck midnight, they found it within them to fake a smile, lock the office and retreat to their respective homes.

"So where do we go from here?" Rebecca asked. It was a question none of them had ever wanted to ask, a question that signalled how close to the end of the line they actually were.

"We keep going," Barry guessed. "That's all we can do."

Somehow, his answer did not comfort her. All their fight seemed to lead to was a continuous series of dead ends. What if this was the final blockade? What if Umbrella never fell, and they dedicated the rest of their lives to a fight that was impossible to win?

She was eighteen, was she doomed to spend the rest of her years in hiding? All that had been keeping them going was the hope that one day they could return to their normal lives, fear and suspicion a thing of the past. To consider the possibility that peace and closure did not lie in their future; it was demoralising, to say the least.

The usual unease crept upon them as they made for the car park. An eerie mist poured in from the park to the right of the entrance, unsettling in the way it concealed the majority of their surroundings. Mist was not a common sight at that time of year.

"Excuse me," a voice called, stopping them in their tracks before their feet had hit the tarmac. Each reached instinctively for their concealed firearm, taking no chances.

"Whoa, hey!" the stranger protested. "Don't shoot the messenger!"

His cocky stance fit the profile of what they expected of Umbrella, but the nervousness that laced his undertones suggested that he was equally as afraid of them as they had been of him. Broad-shouldered with long mahogany hair, pulled back tightly and tied at the back of his head; something about him struck Rebecca as familiar. He was dressed in strangely formal attire, an assortment of pens clipped to his shirt pocket and a plastic file in hand.

"I didn't want to come inside," he explained. "Thought it would draw too much attention. I have something that may interest you."

Rebecca watched as he pressed the folder into Barry's hands, before raising his once again to show that he was unarmed.

"Bertolucci, right?" Barry asked as he accepted the unexpected gift. "I've seen you round the station a few times. Didn't think you'd have the guts to show your face round here again."

"Anything for the truth," Bertolucci smiled in response. "For what it's worth, I have nothing against you guys. If you ask me, S.T.A.R.S. is the best thing to happen to the R.P.D. in years. Can't say it's worth the extra money at the taxpayer's expense but at least you've done some good in your time."

The name Ben Bertolucci was infamous within the walls of the R.P.D.; his stories had riled the higher management, especially Chief Irons. The majority of his tales of corruption and incompetence had been based upon fact, and though they greatly amused those who were not involved, it was a miracle the man could say so much with so little repercussion.

"What is this?" Barry asked.

"Information," Bertolucci clarified, hands sliding into his pockets once the threat of being gunned down had receded. "I...I've been following your story. Don't get me wrong, I thought you were all wackjobs when it broke, but there were elements of your story that supported what I'd already found, things I'd kept to myself because...well, it's dangerous stuff. It goes deep, all of this. I figured it would be worth more to you than it would to me."

Rebecca leaned over Barry's shoulder as he opened the file, pulling out several heavily-printed sheets of paper. Several passport-sized photographs were printed on each side, supplemental information neatly organised into rows at the side. Further delving into the folder produced many similar pages. Some faces they recognised, most they did not; high-profile individuals, the unfamiliar primarily clad in lab coats and business attire.

"What is this?" Rebecca wanted to know. More pages, more faces.

"Influence," Bertolucci told her. "Your claims of corruption within the ranks of the Umbrella Corporation piqued my interest, so I dug a little deeper into what I already know. Every connection that I couldn't trace leads right back to them. That folder contains a list of every individual I have documented receiving monetary deposits from Umbrella accounts. The deposits are sporadic at best, and they're damn good at covering their tracks. I can't prove that any bribes are being offered, so this information is virtually useless to me. Something tells me that you could put it to use."

Her breath caught in her throat, the evening chill on the wind catching her unaware. Even so, she knew that the shiver that passed through her bones was not entirely due to the weather.

Half of the Raccoon City Council stared back at her from the pages, the Chief of Medicine at Raccoon General Hospital joining them alongside several senior officers of the Raccoon Police Department...including Police Chief Brian Irons.

"I knew it," Barry fumed beneath his breath. "Bastard's been taking bribes."

It all made sense; there was no chance that Irons had made it to Chief on his own steam. His incompetence was a joke, and it was clear that he saw the position as a stepping stone to a higher office. Mayor Warren was steadily losing favour in light of incidents that seemed far too orchestrated to be coincidence. Word on the street was that Irons looked to be the main contender for his position. A quick leaf through Bertolucci's file showed no sign of the beleaguered Mayor.

It was simple, now that they thought about it. Warren was a good man, and always put the good of the city above personal gain. Umbrella could not control him, so they were attempting to oust him. Irons would fold easily beneath pressure; if he rose to office, Umbrella would essentially control the city.

Bertolucci nervously scanned the parking lot.

"It's terrifying to consider, but I believe you," he muttered, hand raised to his hair. "If Umbrella are capable of this level of subterfuge, who knows what else they are capable of? Be careful, especially 'round that Chief of yours. He's a nasty piece of work."

He left before they could thank him, left in stunned silence as they contemplated his words.

"They're everywhere," Rebecca noted. "Irons was right, we don't stand a chance of taking them on here. It's a miracle we're still alive!"

Barry's suggestion had been evident to her the moment he had opened the file.

"We have to leave Raccoon."

* * *

Chris could not cease the nervous checking of his watch. Barely a minute passed between glances, and each one that crawled past only made him more and more anxious.

'She's not coming.'

'It's only been five minutes!'

'Why would she come? You weren't exactly pleasant to her last time you spoke.'

He scoffed at his thoughts. Unpleasant was not how would have described the way he had acted towards her. It had been cowardly, cruel and unnecessary. He had initially believed that pushing her away would ease the knot within his stomach, but what had initially felt akin to mild indigestion now felt more like a flesh-eating disease. It was easier to push than to accept, though he was beginning to discover that it was far more agonising. Every day he felt less and less like a man; a real man would not treat a woman that way, especially not his best friend.

'Where the hell is she?'

As though on cue, three short raps were heard against the door to his apartment.

Suddenly, his courage drained. Why had he invited her? What had he been thinking? Why not Barry? Why not Rebecca? Hell, why not _Brad_?

He drew the many locks quicker than his fingers could manage, until nothing separated them but the door itself.

She appeared as dishevelled as he felt; clad in plain jeans and a low-cut V-neck tee, barely covered by a worn-in jacket she pulled tight to her body. She wore no make up, but he still found that his breath was not where he had expected it to be.

"You going to let me in?" she asked curtly.

Stepping aside, he allowed her to pass, quickly closing the door behind her and turning each and every lock. Paranoia, it seemed, was infectious.

"I didn't think you would come," he admitted with quiet satisfaction.

Her footsteps shuffled against carpet, legs carrying her to the mess he had sworn for days he would clean. Food cartons, cigarette butts, crumpled paper and bent pizza boxes; the scene painted the perfect picture of a slob.

"Chris..." she gasped, taking more interest in the trash than in the man she had come to see. "What the hell is this?"

Though he did not fully understand her suppressed outrage, he hung his head in shame. There was no food amongst the litter, no invite for insects to suddenly descend upon his apartment. It was simple uncleanliness and she knew that he rarely cleaned up after himself.

"Okay, how long did it take you to smoke all these?" she demanded in disbelief as she emptied a single ashtray into a plastic bag. "You want cancer, is that it?"

He had not expected her to be civil with him. If he had been the one woken at such an ungodly hour, they would undoubtedly be beating each other to death with sofa cushions at this point.

"It's good to see you," he admitted against his better judgement.

She cast him a look that conveyed her wish to mirror the sentiment. The only words that fell from her lips were further complaints and general avoidance of her purpose of her visit. When he stepped towards her, he stepped into the dim light, close enough now to make out that she had discarded her jacket on the arm of his sofa.

"Chris, how-" her words ended abruptly when she turned, eyes meeting his for the first time since her arrival. When she spoke once again, her tone was softer, gentler. "Jesus, Chris. What hap- Have you even slept at all since you left?"

He shrugged, for he did not know the answer. A couple of hours every night at most was usually what he stole, but they were hours filled with unsettling dreams and distressing circumstances. Remaining awake had become the easier option.

Jill's fingers ran through her hair, her demeanour suddenly changing. He had no idea what he looked like these days, but it had obviously been enough to startle her.

"I'm alright," he assured her, desperate to chase the worry from her reluctant smile.

"Of course," she laughed bitterly. "You're always alright. Bulletproof Chris Redfield. All the pain in the world couldn't buckle your knees."

Oh how wrong she was. He wished to tell her so, tell her that he was hurting more than she could imagine. Every ounce of discomfort that found its way into her words tore another wound in his already fractured being. Of all the people he longed to protect, it was those who meant the most to him that suffered the most.

"Jill..."

"The only reason I'm here is because I thought you might need me," she revealed. "I'm starting to think that whatever my gut tells me about you, I should do the opposite."

"Jill, I'm sorry-"

"Try telling that to Elran," she spat. "You're an asshole, Chris. You're selfish, uncaring, and if you keep going down this road you're going to end up old and lonely."

The dagger that had been pricking at his guard suddenly buried itself to the hilt in his heart. He could not remember ever witnessing her so furious. Every word had been carefully orchestrated to blind him with guilt and regret, the full force of her fury hitting him with every syllable.

It was a bitter taste of his own medicine, and it hurt like hell.

"I called you over to talk," he explained, his voice defiantly calm. Business was what had driven him to dial her number, and business was the direction this meeting needed to take. "I found something I need you to take a look at."

He turned towards his bedroom, not giving her the chance to protest. He had not the energy within him to fight, and knew that he deserved everything she threw his way.

Fortunately, his bedroom was far cleaner than the rest of his apartment; he had even made his bed that morning. Papers lay scattered over the desk, almost entirely obscuring his computer and printer from view. It took only moments to locate the paper of interest, and she took it from him without question.

It was a harrowing find and not a burden he wished to impose on her but she was his partner above all, and if his plans were to come to fruition, he wanted her to be at his side as he fought. He could not do this without her. More than that, he did not want to.

"G?" she read aloud. "Implantation? Mitochondrial- Is this a virus?"

Chris nodded morosely.

"But...the virus in the labs, that was designated 'T'."

"This is something else," Chris sighed. "We have no idea of the extent to which Umbrella is experimenting with viral technology. There could be dozens more. This one is fairly new, extracted from Lisa Trevor. We know what they did to her, Jill. The T-virus was the basis of her infection; this could be an amalgamation of _everything_ they have found so far. I can't understand everything, but it seems to be uncontrollable and highly volatile. If this gets out..."

She stumbled, steadied only by his quick hand. Blue eyes looked from the paper to the face she had seen on too few occasions lately. He could almost see the thoughts gathering behind her concentration, links forming and conclusions being prematurely drawn.

"Rebecca never mentioned this," she murmured. "Chris, did you- Have you- All this time?"

The reason for her pained expression eluded him, but he nodded regardless. The others had been too busy; he had caught wind of something and dove after it with what he shamefully admitted was reckless obsession. He had been a rolling boulder, knocking aside everything - and everyone - in his path. Everyone including her.

"Dammit, Chris, why didn't you come to me for help?" she demanded emotionally. "We're _partners_. You didn't have to do this alone."

He could not answer. Why had he not asked for her help? Was it the belief that she would be safer away from him? Or was it the fear-fuelled desire to put distance between them? He certainly hoped it was not the latter.

"I'm leaving," he whispered. Always, the wrong words found their way into conversation. He could not bring himself to check her expression. Leave was all he ever seemed to do these days.

"You have got to be joking," she pushed angrily. "Please tell me you're joking."

"I'm not," he admitted. His mouth was dry and he was sure the words ripped his throat to shreds as they emerged. "There is nothing more for us here. Umbrella's main HQ is in Paris, if we want to find anything we need to be looking there."

She turned from him, letting the papers fall to the floor. He could sense the tension that wracked her body, could feel the impact of the blow he had inflicted with every step away from him that she took.

"Jill...I want you to come with me."

It was a sincere wish, one he hoped that she would grant. Aside from the progress, Rebecca and Barry were in the midst of moving their families; they would be alone for at least a week. Time enough, he hoped, to repair all the damage he had dealt to their relationship, whatever that may be at this point.

"I can't do this without you," he revealed. "I know we're all hurting, but that's no excuse for the way I've been lately. I let my anger distort the truth, and somewhere along the line I forgot what was important. Friends, Jill. I need you with me because you're my partner, but I want you with me because you're my friend. Please...I don't want to leave you behind."

A single tear on her cheek caught the light from his bedside lamp, though she was quick to wipe it away, as though it had never been there at all.

"No," she answered after a short silence.

His blood boiled for the smallest of moments. No?

"Jill!" he protested, stepping towards her and reaching out.

"Chris, I can't," she insisted as she brushed off his hands. "I- You have no idea who badly I want to say yes. But the lab beneath the city...it's worth at least looking into. That's already my job. I need to stay here and see what I can find. We could miss something big and we can't afford a loss like that."

"I can't afford a loss like you!" he blurted out. It was unintentional, and the embarrassment it brought with it made eye contact between the two impossible. "_We_. _We_ can't afford a loss like you, Jill."

Somehow, he did not think that anything had been saved.

To his surprise, she approached him, smiling encouragement as she placed the palms of her hands flat against his chest.

"Stay," she urged. "This should only take a month at the most. Wait for me, and I'll come with you."

Such an offer had never been so appealing. However, he knew that if they did not move now, they never would. If _he_ did not move now, he never would. Paris offered the promise of a break, of a short-lived vacation. He felt moments away from breaking point and knew that if he did not get out of Raccoon - and soon - he would likely burn out.

Besides, Claire would not seek him out in Paris. It was time to disappear completely.

"I can't," he lamented, pulling her into an embrace. "It's now or never. I spoke to my doctor and he said I should be alright to fly out, so I was thinking about next week."

She was so small in his arms, sinking into his embrace rather than pulling away. Lost in her own little world, it seemed, it was not until he pulled away himself that she took notice of what he had said.

"There's nothing I can say to stop you, is there?" she asked, concealing a mournful smile.

There were a few things she could say, but he knew that they would never be heard, not from her lips. She knew him too well and so accepted this inevitable concept without pushing a sensitive issue. She was as stubborn as he and though it dealt a further blow to his heart, he knew that come next week, they would be exchanging temporary farewells.

It was strange how his plan seemed bittersweet without her involvement. But what had he truly expected? He had not been much of a friend lately. The only reprieve came in the form of her reluctant acceptance of his departure.

"I'm sorry," he apologised. "For everything."

Jill pulled further away, raising a closed fist to her mouth. An abrupt change could be sensed in her posture, but he could not find a reason for her sudden adjustment.

"I should go back," she hurried. "It's getting late and Rebecca will be wondering where I am. Could I borrow some money for a cab?"

A cab?

"You didn't bring your car?"

"I couldn't find the keys," she excused quickly. Why did she want to leave so desperately? "It was only a few blocks."

"You _walked_?" His voice was almost a roar. "What the hell were you thinking? You know it's dangerous out there, especially for us."

"I'm still in one piece, aren't I?"

"That's not the point!"

An unnatural chill had settled against his skin. He had thought her to have more sense than to take such a stupid risk. Reluctance surfaced as he contemplated the consequences of leaving her; could she be trusted to be careful with her actions? Recklessness was not something he had ever expected to see within her; further proof that the events of weeks past had affected her more than she was letting on.

"Why do you even care?" she snapped. Whatever tenderness she had displayed moments earlier had obviously been a momentary gift. Erratic was another word he would not have applied to her. Always level in her mood and temper, moat days she was the picture of a stable mind.

"Stay," he requested, preparing to reinforce his point physically if he must. "Sleep here, I'll drive you home in the morning."

Something flashed in her eyes, and her brow softened considerably.

"Is there any point in protesting?" she smiled. The twist of her lips was more genuine this time, though suppressed. It seemed that she was forcing a hostile demeanour but lacked the strength of mind to uphold this fakery. He knew the feeling; he would have acted the same way if their positions were in reverse.

"I locked the front door," he pointed out. "I'm not opening it until morning. Make of that what you will."

She laughed in resignation.

"Alright," she relented, eyes still stubbornly avoiding his. "If you insist on holding me hostage, I'm going to need something to sleep in."

Though her words hinted at reluctance, her smiled suggested otherwise.

What exactly he could offer, he did not know. Claire often left clothes at his apartment for ease of travel, but had taken the majority of her belongings with her when she moved away to college, including pyjamas. While he had not kept on top of laundry, there were at least a few of his own T-shirts he could offer her. The connotations were more than he could handle.

Nevertheless, he reached into a drawer and pulled out a suitable item for her comfort.

"This okay?"

She reached for the fabric, fingertips skimming over the soft cotton. She barely gripped the material; tight enough to ensure an adequate hold but gentle enough to encourage him to maintain his.

"May twelfth," she laughed, mind far from the present.

"What?"

"Joseph's birthday," she whispered. "You all joined him for drinks at his apartment; I wasn't there, it was Cassie's birthday too. You wore this shirt."

He had not connected the memory to his old T-shirt; it was clothing, pure and simple. But that night... It had seemed so normal at the time, but so far removed from where they were now.

"You obviously weren't intending to end up downtown," she teased. "When I ran into you, we were all equally wasted. I remember walking home through the park, and Brad falling spectacularly into the fountain. I broke one of my heels and you carried me home, singing Heat of the Moment at the top of your lungs."

Chris cringed at the unwelcome reminder.

"Did I ever apologise for that?"

She laughed with him, but only for a moment. Sadness caught her breath, forced her eyes closed in a movement he knew signalled the impending arrival of tears.

"Jill," he whispered, using their mutual grip on the T-shirt to pull her close. "Talk to me."

Her fingers slipped from the T-shirt, one hand moving to run fingers through her hair once again; a nervous move she had repeated many times that night.

"I miss them," she admitted with a broken voice. Her face contorted in pain, tears slipping from between closed eyelids. "Chris, I miss them."

The T-shirt fell to the floor. Arms encircled her, pulling her reluctant form into him; the only comfort he knew to offer. She folded into him easily, though kept her own arms between their bodies. Stubborn, it seemed, even in sorrow.

He knew that there was nothing he could say that would heal her wounds. It was from experience that he knew the force of grief. First his parents, now his friends.

Her pain came to him stronger than his own grief had. There she was, this one perfect, strong woman, trembling in his in arms. How could you heal pain that stemmed from the soul?

"I miss them, too," he sighed, finding that his own voice cracked as hers had. Was he crying? He was not sure; it had been many years since he had shed tears.

"I just don't understand it," she continued between soft, restrained sobs. "Why did they die? Why them and not us?"

Chris did not know how to answer. Truly, he had been searching for it with every breath that took him further and further away from that night. How many lives would have been saved had they been faster to act?

"I'm scared," she revealed. "I feel like I'm losing my mind. I'm losing everything."

"Hey," he soothed. "That's not true. Jill, I'd be worried if you didn't react to what happened. It's natural. But you have us, you'll always have us."

She scoffed quietly, pulling away to lower herself onto the edge of the bed.

"I can't speak to my father," she disclosed tearfully. "I lost most of my best friends, the others have either moved away or are too ashamed to talk to me. On top of that, we're different, you and I. You keep hiding and walking away and I don't know how much longer I can keep up the chase. I don't like what you've become, Chris. I want my friend back."

The shame returned, forcing him onto the bed at her side, guilting him into reaching for a trembling hand. They all had issues, and he knew that over the past couple of weeks, he had only been adding to hers. Was this sudden, inexplicable change due to him? Was her strength drawn from his proximity? He depended on her an awful lot, and had never considered that the feeling may have been mutual.

"I know that I hurt you," he revealed. "Trust me, whatever you're feeling, I'm getting it threefold. I have no excuse for being the asshole I've been lately, but I want you to know that no matter what I do and how I act, I'll always be there for you and I'll always come back."

Further tears spilled onto her cheeks. Her free hand could not move fast enough to bat them away.

"Friendship goes both ways," she told him. "You can't just be someone's friend, you have to let them be yours. You can't bottle things up then lash out when they try to help. I'm always here for you, but you never take me up on that offer. If you don't want to talk to me, fair enough, but talk to _someone_. Please."

She knew that her plea had likely fallen on deaf ears, but optimism was the only hope any of them could grasp.

Chris knew that her words were both valid and appropriate. But she was a woman; opening up came easier to her. The years had taught him to internalise his problems, to keep them to himself and put on a brave face. Truth be told, he did not know how to share what he felt. How could words mirror anguish, how could pure happiness be translated to syllables? Words were but a weak explanation of emotions. To truly be understood, they needed to be shared.

"I...I'm scared, too," he tried. At the very least it was worth the best he could give. "I'm scared I'm going to lose what little I have left."

Jill gripped his hand, silently encouraging reluctant words.

"I'm terrified of accepting they're gone, because I know I won't be able to cope."

An invisible noose tightened around his neck, choking words where they were least dangerous. They were only words, why were they so hard to speak?

"I don't like who I've become," he continued. "I hate that you're worried about me because it should be the other way around. I'm not myself, I know that now, and I have no control over it. Anger is painless, it's easier to accept."

"Help is easier," she whispered, though they both knew that she lied.

"I left because I'm scared of S.T.A.R.S.," he revealed. "I need to be professional for the sake of the team, but I know you'll all look to me as a leader and I'm not ready for that. I don't think I'll ever be ready for that kind of responsibility."

"I don't want a leader," she insisted, leaning in uncomfortably close. "I want a friend."

He laughed bitterly. She was one of four teammates; majority always emerged victorious. It may not have been a conscious move, but sooner or later they would begin to ask for guidance, for hope, and for plans he knew would be flawed. Something would go wrong, people would die, and he would never be able to wash the blood from his hands.

"Chris, I miss you," Jill breathed. "We all do. You don't have to lead, you just have to be there. All of this feels impossible without you."

Her warmth was almost suffocating, pressing into his side with unbearably tempting thoughts.

"I need you, and I'm not ashamed to admit that. Not anymore."

A void he had not previously been aware of pulled her to him again, her tears soaking through his T-shirt when she fell into him, eagerly this time. There was something comforting about the way she held him, something that told him never to let go.

'Now would be the perfect time to tell her how you feel.'

His body tensed stubbornly. Of all the stupid ideas his subconscious often offered, this had to be the most out of line. She needed comfort, not a revelation that was bound to startle and disturb her. They needed one another; unrequited love had a nasty tendency to drive a wedge between even the best of friends.

"You have a beautiful mind. There's no way you'd ever lose it."

What did that even mean? It was asinine, and a damn cowardly way of translating what he truly felt into words that would not bring about such devastation.

Her cries ceased, and he found that his hands ceased their rubbing of her back in response. Slowly, painfully, she pulled back, cheeks glistening with previously shed tears.

She had let go, had cried all her troubles into his welcoming shoulder, and he comes out with a compliment so ridiculous? Part of him hoped that she was judging the most appropriate angle for a slap; he knew he deserved it.

Her body remained in his arms, maintaining distance, but retaining the closeness he had felt moments earlier. Blue eyes blinked up at his ashamed expression, bloodshot yet still beautiful. She wore no make up and the night had already marred her face, but she was still beautiful in his love struck eyes. Plain in comparison to the other girls that had seen his bedroom, but far more attractive.

Adding insult to injury, he raised a hand to wipe the tears from her cheeks, fingertips moving then to catch the moisture beneath her eyes. Long lashes brushed softly against his calloused thumb, and she sighed quietly, biting her bottom lip.

When her eyes opened again, a fire raged within them, burning through the icy tone of her irises. In that moment, he had not known what to expect, but prepared an apology and a million excuses that would likely come up short.

What he had not expected was a kiss. It came softly; a simple application of pressure against his top lip. Indeed, he had not recognised the soft touch as that of her lips. Gentle, tentative and sweet. Quite simply, he had experienced nothing like it in his twenty-five years.

He felt the pressure of the kiss throughout his body, burning through veins that thawed with the sudden heat. The few brain cells that had not been immolated by the blissful inferno encouraged movement in his own lips, deepening a simple touch into a fiery kiss.

Nothing existed in that moment but her; he was not even sure that his presence was real. However he had believed kissing her would feel, it did not touch upon the sweet decadence of the real thing. Never had he been so sure about his love for the girl.

Her tongue cajoled his, the tip of her nose pressing gently against his cheek. His hands were moving, but he could barely feel what he touched. In the back of his mind, he knew that it was wrong, that this was not how it should be, but her poison had him in complete submission. Whatever she wanted, it was hers, she did not even have to ask.

Fingers suddenly touched against the skin of his abdomen, soft tips tracing ridges of muscle, pulling fabric up as they moved. The attention his mind had previously paid to her movements suddenly split, the diverted ecstasy flowing to another organ entirely.

Dare he stop her? He knew that he should, but could not find the desire within him. He loved this woman, and she kissed him back with such gentle ferocity that he was sure in his delirium that his feelings were not so unrequited after all.

With this thought, he knew how that night would end.

Mind suddenly free from the lust that had seized it, he could feel the emotion she poured into the kiss, could even feel tears against his cheeks that were not his own. She needed him, and put effort into every movement to let him know that it was so.

He was caught unaware when she pushed, forcing him to the bed with more strength than he had anticipated. Her hair fell against his cheek, teeth grazing his lip sensually. Whatever control he had hoped to grasp now eluded him; she was insistant and he knew in his heart that she wanted this as much as he did.

Explorative hands slid beneath her tee, gliding over toned abdominals. A startled gasp broke the kiss once again when fingers met with curved, bare skin.

'This woman is going to be the death of me,' he groaned inwardly, tracing the curve of her breast with one hand while the other pulled the tee clear of her body. Her lips fell against the skin of his cheek, kissing everywhere but the lips. His hands carressed her eagerly, reaching up, kneading soft flesh with rough hands.

She pulled away suddenly, arms covering what he had felt but had yet to see. Fearful eyes met his, pink lips parting to allow a trembling breath to pass. Her expression was one of desire and confusion; she could not bring herself to leave his arms completely, but seemed afraid of pushing forward.

"Is this right?" her silent eyes asked.

How could it be wrong?

Chris slid his fingers back into her soft hair, holding his palms against her cheeks. He had never seen her so vulnerable, so open. She was offering a lot, asking for nothing in return but his company. He loved her, though even in that moment he could not find the courage to tell her.

Was she afraid that he would leave?

He locked eyes with her, hoping that she would see how wrong she was to hold any doubt, and feel that which could not be spoken.

Her lips twitched, a smile attempted but not achieved.

Her kiss was gentle this time, lithe fingers stroking the back of his neck, wrapping around the short hairs at the base of his skull. He barely found the composure to free her of her jeans and pull her further onto his lap. Nails scraped over the skin of his shoulders, carving red marks in their wake. He was sure his skin had not always been this sensitive, every inch of her that pressed to him setting nerves aflame.

She was gentle despite her desperation and he knew that he had to be, too. She was not some dumb bar slut he had brought home for a night of fun; this was Jill Valentine, the woman he had willingly handed his useless heart to. Trouble was, did he know how to be gentle? He had little doubt that he was more experienced that her, and likely had a bad reputation within the female circles of the R.P.D. He wished there were a way to show her that he was equally as frightened, that simply gazing upon her half-naked form made him feel so out of his league he wasn't sure where he stood anymore. He did not make love, but knew that anything less would be an insult to her and to the way he felt. Always preoccupied with taking care of himself, how did he make this about her?

'Stop worrying or all this is pointless,' he reminded himself.

He found that his hands trembled as they slid experimentally up the smooth skin of her thigh. Somehow, he felt as though he were back in high school, fumbling his way through a first encounter. Every touch brought a different sound from her throat, and he could tell by the awkward movement of her limbs that she was desperately trying to remain quiet. Deviously, fingers slid beneath her underwear, tracing the curve of her backside. He did not _want_ her to keep quiet; he wanted to _hear_ how she felt, _know_ what she liked.

Several fingers trailed behind, the texture of skin suddenly different; coarse and unpleasant. He did not mean to break contact, but it was a natural response. Three long, thin welts ran across the side of her upper right thigh. Though old and healing, he could tell that they had once been painful, perhaps still were. Further scratches could be felt against her back, one on her upper arm that he had failed to notice previously.

She seemed to notice his diverted attention, attempted to break it with the workings of her lips.

They had all suffered, though the extent of one another's injuries was known only by the medic who had treated them. Too preoccupied with the emotional scars, he had failed to consider the physical impact of that night. His own torso had been a pitiful sight to behold at first, and though the wounds had slowly healed, their ghosts remained.

Suddenly, her fingers wrapped around his dog tags, pulling him back onto the large awaiting bed.

Moonlight caught her as she moved, accentuating every curve and illuminating her skin with its ethereal glow. She may as well have been a dream; she seemed so far out of his reach, so unobtainable. Worry flashed once again in her eyes, breath shaking as he joined her. He had never known her fake confidence. What was it that she found so daunting?

'It's _you_, fool. She cares for you, _feel_ it.'

He traced her scars lovingly, sinking into her and sliding her underwear sensually down her legs. She groaned into the skin of his neck, nipping at points of sensitivity he never knew that he had. Her hand slipped to his boxers, passing beneath the waistband as she nibbled gently on his earlobe. He jerked the arm at her waist, pulling her into him before her fingers travelled any lower. He was not seeking pleasure, though it pleased him to know that this would ultimately be the result of their tryst. No, he wanted to _feel_ her, and to show her just how much she meant to him. If he could not tell her, then he could show her.

Hampering to his attempts, aggressiveness came to her in spurts, spurred on perhaps by impatience. She fought against him, and against herself; a tense battle for dominance he knew was fultile on her behalf. Within moments, she was beneath him, seemingly happy to resign herself to the fact that she had little control over what was to happen.

He groaned at the blissfullycontrasting feel of her body against his; soft curves against hard muscle. His own fingers made him a hypocrite and she bucked against the sudden pressure, gripping his arm tight enough to sink her fingernails into his tricep. This time, it was his lips that teased her throat, searching skin he had rarely seen exposed. He wanted to _feel_ every inch of her, know what made her squeal his name. It was difficult when she could not keep still beside him, and every pressure point he did discover he found purely by accident. Her perspiration tasted as sweet as her lips, beading on her skin and catching the light.

"Chris!" she gasped, breaking the silence he had thought to be an unwritten rule.

His attention now broken, she took the moment to slide his boxers to the bed, throwing in an obligatory tease as she captured his lips, lest they push her too far too soon.

She fell back when he pushed, bucking her hips against his.

"Dammit, Jill," he groaned, regretting his words as soon as they emerged. She laughed nervously, wrapping her strong, soft thighs around his waist, but he knew that his outburst had been inappropriate.

His thumb brushed her cheek, fingers finding the softness of her hair. The trauma of days past seemed but a distant memory; the desperation in her almost hesitant movements signifying a need words could not describe.

Neither of them knew how long they laid there, lost in a tender kiss, feeling what had not yet been felt. Chris only knew that it was after one o'clock when he glanced to his bedside table, turning back to her when her lips once again found his ear.

Her eyes were glazed, her smile stupefied. Searching for reason, for _permission_, he found it somewhere beyond her dilated pupils. Unsure of what he had seen, he knew regardless that she wanted this as much as he; that she needed it even more. Whether his transgressions had been forgiven or simply forgotten, he did not know.

All he knew was that he loved her, and for now that was enough.

**AN - Please review :).**


	8. Everlong

**Strength Through Wounding**

**AN - **I don't know how I've written these last two chapter so quickly. This chapter I actually split in half. I'm trying to refrain from doing that because the story just keeps getting longer, but I feel it works much better this way, even if it did render this chapter a filler. I also amended the epilogue so now there are technically two epilogue chapters. I'll sort the formatting out and stuff when it comes to that, but after this chapter I estimate there to be 4 left (including the epilogues). I did have to shift things round with a sequel in mind, but again it works much better this way; the original ending was quite abrupt, but I feel this rounds things off quite nicely. When this story began, there were only nine chapters including the prologue and epilogue, lol. Anyway, I struggled a little with Jill at the end of this chapter thanks to the split but hopefully you all enjoy it.  
Chapter title is from a song by Foo Fighters.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed: **xSummonerYunax, Kenshin13, Razial, tek, cjjs, Devil Rebel, ditto9 **and **KT324.** I haven't had time to reply to everyone this time, but I'll try and get back to you at some point. Thank you all for your comments!

**_Chapter Seven_**_ - Everlong_

_'I wonder if everything could ever feel this real forever,  
If anything could ever be this good again.'_

**_August 15, 1998. 9:42am._**

It was curious that her sleep that night was dreamless; no nightmares, no death. Curious also that her sheets smelled different somehow, her arms encircled something warm and hard, and her pillow was not of the cotton she was familiar with. It was a strange shape, too, pressing against her nose and forehead, and emitting an unusual amount of heat. More than that, it breathed. Her pillow never breathed.

Her eyes opened suddenly, closing again quickly against the light she was not prepared for. As feeling returned to her body she became aware that her left leg was wrapped around another, her arm draped across a muscular torso. The chest beneath her cheek rose and fell in a steady rhythm, almost hypnotic in its repetition.

'Of course...'

Shamelessly, she inhaled against his skin, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent that was now tainted with evidence of the previous night. The concoction of pheromones and perspiration set every nerve alight as it passed through her body, making sure that she was aware of the way her body pressed to his, not even air between them.

It faded with the reality that came swooping down upon her. This was no dream, last night was no dream. She did not need the arm that held her to him to tell her this, nor the fingers that rested against her bare ribcage. No...in dreams he always left. He was here, his cheek resting against her forehead as regular breaths skimmed across her skin.

In dreams he was so much different, domesticated in comparison to the real thing. Nerves had almost crippled her as clothes had slowly been stripped away, but he had been so patient, and so careful. Yet still she had felt completely powerless in his arms, and quite overwhelmed. There were things she never knew her body capable of until now, limits she never dreamed would be in such close view. Too many men were afraid of embracing the animal they were deep down, but not Chris. In the pack of her previous lovers, he was definitely the alpha male. It seemed that Jill Valentine had finally met her match.

She had not known what it was that had brought her lips to his, only that a compliment had touched her tearful heart and rendered her common sense powerless to intervene in what followed. Was it comfort she had sought, or an answer? She had not requested what he had given her, and had expected him with all honesty to rebuff her advance. Why had he not?

Her pillow moved, a deep groan rumbling through his chest. Immediately, her eyes close and she steadied her breathing.

Expecting to be woken abruptly, she lay in still silence for longer than she cared to count. Little thought had been given to the consequences of their actions, though she was sure in that moment that guilt would force them apart, eyes would avert and she would dress in shame and amble back to her apartment, perhaps never to speak to him again.

As soothing to the soul as the previous night had been, she was not sure that she could live with a consequence so dire. It may have been a one night stand to him but it had meant so much more to her.

The fingers at her back moved, sliding from the sensual grip at her waist to a more tender hold higher up her torso. He was awake; she knew from the way his free fingers danced along her wrist. The dancing fingers suddenly hit a point where nerve endings protested to his touch and the traitorous appendage jerked suddenly against his chest.

'Time to face the music.'

She pretended to be woken by his unintentional - she assumed - tickle, raising her head groggily. Pain shot down her neck and across her shoulder, the price of such a romantic position hitting her unexpectedly. They made it look so comfortable in the movies.

His arm never once relented its hold, and when she gazed upon his face she saw the same fear that caused her unsteadiness. For some reason or another, she felt less uncomfortable knowing that she was not alone in her shyness.

Stepping back to where this had all began, she kissed him lightly, relaxing against him when he responded immediately. He pulled her closer, both hands now attending to her. All that he hid verbally came through in his kiss, sparks igniting everything capable of feeling within her.

Suddenly realising that neither was in their freshest state, they pulled apart, eyes meeting hopefully. Neither could find words to share, and Jill thought it better this way; this could potentially be the most awkward moment of her life.

"Well, look at that," he spoke in a low, rumbling voice, breaking the silence she had dared not touch. "You're even more beautiful in daylight."

No regret.

She longed to kiss him again, but something stopped her. Instead, she giggled. Jill Valentine never giggled. Who was this woman? Jill barely knew what laughter felt like any more.

As blissful ignorance faded, reality crept back upon them. What had they hoped to achieve? They were in the middle of their own personal war; a relationship was both dangerous and distracting at this point. Whatever lingered between them could not be allowed to survive that morning and these deceptively comforting moments.

"What's wrong?" Chris asked, the backs of his fingers brushing her cheek.

She laughed bitterly, knowing that he had seen it in her eyes. She was sure of her feelings for him now, and knew that he felt for her too, in whatever way that may be. It was too much to ask for love, but she found it pleasing to entertain the thought. Whatever it was, she had never before seen it in the eyes of a man whose attention was solely on her. It was both pleasing and terrifying.

"This didn't happen, did it?" she asked.

The fingers stilled, worry seeping into his expression. His rose-tinted glasses had been removed and she could tell that he did not like what he saw.

'Perhaps it _is_ love?' she thought to herself. 'You love him, why not confess? If he feels the same would the outcome be so bad?'

Yes, it would. That was the problem. If Umbrella's surveillance tactics told them anything it was that they were not above targeting loved ones. If it ever became known that they were a couple, Umbrella could use that against them, could use them to hurt one another. Aside from that, concentration was of utmost importance. They had neither the time nor attention to spare for a relationship. If she was to be with Chris, she wanted it to work, not to fall apart amidst the pressure of the job.

For the sake of the fight, one night was all they had.

Chris did not answer, but she knew that he understood.

"I should go," she whispered, though she would much rather have remained with him. "You may not have to work, but I do."

There was no point in torturing herself; it was best if she cut herself off before it became truly painful.

"Jill, no," he begged, gripping her tightly as she moved away. "You're already late. Please, stay...just a little while."

"Chris, I can't."

But he already knew this.

All he was asking for was a little more time with her, while it was still on their side. Would that be such a crime?

"The real world is out there," he told her. "The day starts when you want it to. Until then..."

Until then, they could be with one another. The though was enough to make her never want to leave his apartment. Still, she pulled away, fighting against his hold.

"I'm not letting you go," he smirked. Though she continued to fight, a laugh betrayed her stoic attitude.

"Chris, you have to-"

"Nuh-uh," he joked. "My apartment, my rules. You can't leave until I say you can."

Ashamed though she was to admit it, she felt certain parts of her body - parts that had been neglected until quite recently - awaken at his words. This was not real, it was not how it could be. He was kidding himself and they both knew it.

However, she could tell from the intensity of his desperate eyes that he needed more time, and suddenly refusal became an impossibility. Impossible also was a way out of his arms, so tight was his hold on her.

"Thank you," he sighed as she leaned back onto his chest, losing herself to selfish emotion.

The twisted sheet barely covered them both, concealing all that mattered below the waist but exposing everything else. As a result, she was afforded a glimpse of the light bruising that was his healing fracture. It caused her to think of her own scars, and all that he had witnessed last night. He had not cared that her body was not in immaculate condition. It had not been a show, nor a call to impress.

He had called her beautiful...and this time he was not drunk.

Succumbing to the heat her incredibly appealing pillow exuded, she drifted once again into unconsciousness.

* * *

"Barry!"

Rebecca gripped his arms, almost knocking his recently-acquired coffee clean out of his hands. Worry radiated from her every pore, tears threatening to spill from frantic eyes.

"Well good morning to you, too," he laughed nervously, raising the Styrofoam cup far out of her reach. "What's wrong? Irons on the rampage again?"

"No!" she cried. "It's Jill. Barry, she's gone. I don't know where she is."

"Have you checked the locker room?"

"I'm serious!" she insisted, and suddenly his attention was completely devoted to her words. He had never seen her so riled up. "She wasn't there when I got back last night and I thought she was in bed but when I woke up this morning she wasn't there, but her cell phone was in the kitchen and it didn't look like her bed had been slept in. I thought maybe she'd come in early, but nobody has seen her and I can't find her at all."

She knew that she spoke far too quickly for him to have understood a word, but he seemed to get the gist of what she was trying to say.

"Have you tried calling Chris?" he asked. "He might know where she is."

"Yes! He's not picking up. He's probably not even home. Officer Branagh said he'd look out for her, but-"

"Okay, Rebecca," Barry spoke calmly. "First, you have to calm down. Getting hysterical isn't going to help anyone."

She breathed deeply, concentrated on every intake and expulsion of air. It was so difficult to remain calm when a number of their group was missing. Following her attack, she knew the possibilities of what could have happened to her friend.

"That's good," Barry soothed. "Did you check the answer machine last night? Were there any messages?"

"No," she answered, puzzled by the question. What did that have to do with anything?

"Then she was definitely in her apartment last night," he explained. "She probably came in early, so why don't we split up and search the station? I'm sure she's alright, Rebecca, she's more than capable of looking after herself."

Her mind settled at this realisation. Of course, she had left a message late last night. Cursing her pessimism, she agreed to Barry's plan of action. At least he was still capable of straight thinking. It was horrifying to consider the worst that could have happened, but that was all she seemed to do in the wake of her assault. The thought that Jill had suffered something much worse was worrying to say the least.

As she watched Barry walk quickly away, she brought her hands to her arms, chasing away the chill that always hit her in these halls. Bertolucci's information had done nothing to ease her already nervous mind, and the knowledge that she was potentially crossing the paths of countless Umbrella agents and bribe-receiving members of the Raccoon business sector unnerved her further still. She no longer saw ordinary citizens, she saw potential threats.

She turned on her heel and set off back towards the entrance hall. Work would have to wait. Concern of this degree was unexpected as well as unwanted.

Today of all days, she knew that little attention would fall her way.

* * *

Though the clock told that an hour had passed, Jill found this hard to accept. She had barely adjusted to the thought of waking in his room when Chris moved again, sleepless rest becoming uncomfortable.

"Do you want something to eat?" he asked, startling her out of her stupor. "It's a little late for breakfast, but I could whip something up."

"No," she groaned. Food would mean unwinding herself from his limbs and though it had previously seemed like a good idea, separating from his hold now held no appeal whatsoever. "But I should probably leave. Rebecca will be worried."

Though he hummed agreement with her suggestion, he made no attempt to push her away and she made none to pull. She realised now that he had voiced a valid point earlier; the real world existed only outside of his apartment and the choice to face it was made only with a step through the front door. That one step would take her away from him, for an indefinite period of time that would be too long for her liking.

"Mind if I use your shower?" she grumbled. The sooner she wiped his scent from her skin, the sooner she could begin to let go.

"Mind if I join you?" he joked, her body shaking with his as he laughed. "Knock yourself out, there should be clean towels in there."

He caught her lips as she moved, claiming her one last time. It was almost enough to bring her back to him, but this time she was adamant in her resistance. Memories returned as his teeth raked across the tender flesh of her bottom lip. He knew exactly what he was doing; he appeared to have paid more attention to her reactions last night than she had thought.

"You're devious," she sighed when he allowed her to pull back. Before he could further persuade her, she pushed herself upright, trying hard not to allow her eyes to fall on his body.

His laughter followed her off the bed, forcing a smile as she fumbled for her clothing. It was not her own T-shirt that had fallen closest to her, but Chris's, and so it was this that she reached for, chuckling softly at the irony. Would he notice if she took it home with her?

Something caught the light as she lifted the T-shirt; a small, ripped packet that had rested atop the folded fabric. It touched her that he had the decency to remember protection. She had been out of her mind in the most wonderful yet dangerous sense; so concerned with being with him, she had forgotten the less pleasant consequences of sex. Truthfully, the thought frightened her. She had always been careful, always alert to risks. Everything she had known went out the window where he was concerned, and now it was evident that this was not always a good thing.

The night before washed away beneath Chris's shower head, her skin cleaned by his soap, hair washed with his shampoo. Life was certainly going to make forgetting this experience as difficult as possible. For this reason, she showered hastily, deciding that she could wash off any excess grime at the station.

When she re-emerged in the bedroom, Chris had begun to clothe himself, pulling on the T-shirt she had dropped last night in lieu of the stolen item.

Her jeans were found quickly, her T-shirt a little harder to locate and her panties almost completely out of sight. She considered asking where he had thrown them, until she realised the awkwardness of such a question. In the end, she thought herself lucky to locate every item...except for one.

Chris watched her curiously as she searched through the damp sheets, under the bed and even throwing an instinctive glance to the lampshade.

"What's wrong?" he asked eventually.

"My bra," she cried desperately. "I can't find my Goddamn bra!"

She felt the awkwardness of the silence that fell, broken only when he spoke hesitantly.

"Jill, you uh...you weren't wearing one."

She froze, could feel her entire body burn furiously.

'Yup, that'll do it.'

He felt it too, she could tell from his stance and ashamedly averted gaze.

"Do you want me to-?" he began, cutting himself short and hoping she understood his meaning.

"Yeah."

Chris left suddenly without a word, leaving her to dress alone. She sank to the mattress once she was sure he was gone, and shook the embarrassment from her skin.

Something had changed whilst she was in the bathroom. She had left a lover in the bed, but walked out to find a friend. It seemed that both their minds had begun to adjust to the reality they faced. Previously he had loved her in all her flawed glory, now he had simply seen her naked. She did not know which was more difficult to deal with; the agony of isolated love or the awkwardness that was offered as an alternative.

She dressed quickly, folding his T-shirt neatly at the bottom of the bed in a move that she did not fully understand.

"You sure you don't want any...brunch?" he asked when she joined him in the chaotic living room. The mess seemed far more catastrophic than it had in darkness. Her mind told her that an offer to help tidy would be an excuse to remain a little while longer, but her common sense appeared to be making up for its absence the previous night and shot the idea down in an instant.

"Definitely," she assured him. "I'll get something to eat at the station."

She waited by the door, tugging at the sleeves of her jacket. It was an old thing, kept only as something comfortable to laze around her apartment in. Frayed cuffs, faded colour; she must have looked a mess.

The closer Chris moved to her, the more uncomfortable she felt, yet the more irresistible the urge to stay became. She was sure that a migraine would not be far off if she could not separate what she felt and what she knew to be appropriate.

"Listen, I meant everything I said last night," he was sure to let her know. "I can't promise that I won't hurt you again - I don't want to lie to you. But whatever I do, wherever I go, I will always come back."

Why did he have to make this so difficult? Part of her preferred the asshole he had been, because there was another truth he had spoken last night; anger was easier to deal with, hatred less painful to tolerate.

He had been honest with her; it was more than she could ever ask for.

"Thank you," she sighed as she pressed against him, wrapping her arms around his waist in the hope that he would return the favour. She did not know what she was thanking him for. She was thankful for him in so many ways it was difficult to specify just one.

They remained suspended in temporary affection, unspoken words swirling ominously around them. Yes, there was no doubt that something was there; something shared, something wonderful. How had she not noticed it before?

"Jill," Chris spoke, so softly that she barely heard his voice. "I- I have to tell you something. I should have told you long before now, but I've been such a damn coward."

Her eyes opened, stomach winding itself into a painful knot. She knew by his tone that he referred to something deep-seated and personal, something she was certain would break every silent rule they had laid down.

"Jill, I-"

"Don't," she interrupted, her voice barely a semitone from a plea. Whatever it was, she did not want to hear it. If it was what her heart felt hung on his lips, it would set the point of no return. She felt it also, oh was that ever true. She felt it and she knew that the words would hang over both of their heads from now until the fall of Umbrella. If she heard those words, she would never be able to separate her feelings from reality, and neither would he if he spoke them.

Her head no longer resting against his chest, she could see that her interjection confused him. Pulling away completely now, she swallowed deeply.

"Save it," she requested. "Umbrella... We have to keep focused on bringing them down. Whatever you need to say, save it. Save it until there is no danger. If, after everything is done, you still mean it...I'll be waiting. I'll listen."

If he did not mean it...

She could not see her own feelings changing, and knew that it would break what little was left of her heart on that day. But no true harm would be done, not to their friendship. She would move on, and she would still have her best friend.

Chris silently agreed. His eagerness was touching, but his grip on reality was not as it usually was. Though it visibly troubled him, he accepted her deal.

"You need to tell the others about the G Virus," she told him. "You also need to tell them you're leaving. Barry is flying to Canada soon, he'll want to join you when his family is settled."

When no reply came, she pressed her left hand to his cheek, relishing the warmth of his skin against her palm.

"Take care of yourself," he begged quietly.

Rising up onto the balls of her feet, she pressed her lips to his cheekbone, feeling his breath skim along her jaw. Anything more would have been inappropriate, anything less an insult to what they felt.

With no more words remaining to be spoken, she bade him one final farewell and stepped back into a world that looked a little less bleak on this side of midnight.

* * *

There was no sign of Barry, nor of their missing teammate. Even Brad had been recruited into the search, sent to comb the streets around Jill's neighbourhood.

Rebecca did not know what to think. Her mind told her to remain calm and rational, but the nervous teenager within feared the worst.

The locker room was the one place she had always been able to retreat to, the one place where her mind could wind down and focus.

She held her cell phone before her eyes again, dialling Jill's number with haste. Once again, there was no answer.

'This is ridiculous,' she sighed inwardly. 'There are a million things you could be doing right now, rather than sitting here sulking'.

Yes, there were a million things she would have preferred to be doing today, but duty called as it always did. Her parents had not called, and likely would not. It was safer for them this way. In less than a week she would see them; a bittersweet farewell as she helped them to relocate far away from Umbrella's evil eye.

Canada seemed to be the safest option. While Umbrella operated across the border, their presence in the northern country was minimal at best. The power of publicly-funded health care appeared to be one of Umbrella's few visible weaknesses. Barry would move his family, and Rebecca's parents would be housed nearby. She had no siblings, nor any other close relatives for whom she should be worried. Large families had the tendency to feel isolated at times.

Something scurried between her feet, darting beneath the bench she occupied. Though she had not seen the critter clearly, the general shape and hint of many limbs send her leaping for the opposite bench. Controlled primarily by instinct, she found herself laughing at her skittish movement.

The spider had frozen just beneath the bench, nowhere to go but back into the open. A month ago she would have labelled it as large and ran screaming through the halls of the precinct. Now...she had faced far worse.

_"Can you see anything?"_

_Chris's voice came to her slightly muffled, distant and weary. How could she tell him that she had crawled with her eyes shut? Confined spaces made her uncomfortable enough - the floor level air vent bringing a heavy blanket of claustrophobia down upon her - but it was the cobwebs that set her nerves crawling. It was an irrational fear, but a fear nonetheless. She hated the sight of anything with more than four legs; it just wasn't natural._

_"No," she grunted. Why had she even crawled into the suffocating space in the first place? To crawl through to the next room and unlock a door? That was nowhere near good enough a reason for this._

_Something touched her hand, prickly and cold. From the bare light of her torch she caught a glimpse of a leg, of hairs that truly should not have been attached to such a grotesque limb._

_She found it strange that the first thought to cross her mind was 'But don't tarantula burrow?'._

_An ear-piercing shriek was drawn from her and she flailed about, body ricocheting off the sides of the wooden vent. Boards creaked, something snapped and suddenly she was plummeting through the air, the tarantula, splintered wood and a mass of cobwebs falling at her side._

_Her scream followed her to the soft ground, the surface bending beneath her weight. She barely had time to compose herself before the smell reached her, forcing a disgusted hand to her mouth._

_The hole she had fallen through was visible in the low ceiling, barely eight feet from the ground. Thick silk lined the walls, an assortment of arachnids visible beneath the shimmering surface._

_Suddenly, something dropped from the ceiling, landing but a few feet from her._

_"You alright?" Jill asked, her attention on the rookie before she had even caught her balance._

_"I'm...fine," Rebecca shuddered, the light pressure of the tarantula's legs echoing across her skin. "Sorry, I panicked. Damn bugs."_

_"Jill? Is she alright?" Chris's voice called from up above._

_"She's fine!" Jill called back, laughing lightly at the strangeness of the situation. There was no possible way they could both climb back to the room they had fallen from, and though there was a single door in the basement room, they had no way of knowing where it led._

_"Stay where you are! I'll find another way down."_

_"We should probably get out of here," Jill suggested. "He'll never find us."_

_Rebecca smiled awkwardly. She would accept any excuse to leave that room._

_Another scuttle, this time louder. Were there more of them? Scratches, drawn out against the strange yellow substance that lined the floor._

_Suddenly, the floor lurched._

_"What the hell was that?"_

_Jill remained silent, bringing a finger to her lips. Silken fibres beneath their feet rose and fell with a flurry of movement, enough to bring them together and balance their weight off one another._

_"Oh no," Jill muttered. "No, that's not possible."_

_"What isn't?"_

_Rebecca caught movement out of the corner of her eye, something long, spindly and translucent tearing through the floor several feet away. A body emerged, smooth skin with an orange hue. Her grip on her comrade tightened, every hair on her body standing to attention._

_"They're egg sacs," Jill groaned, her eyes darting between the numerous mounds that lined the floor of the web-encased room._

_She was right; it was not possible. She had seen newborn spiders, newborn tarantula even; they were miniscule, barely visible to the naked eye. These were at least the size of her hand, some larger._

_Her lips parted, the question of what could have produced hatchlings so large resting precariously on the tip of her tongue._

_Something moved behind them, eight impossibly long legs stretching as they carried a leathery, bulbous body across the farthest sac. An impossible number of eyes fixed on them as it paused, unmoving except to adjust against the soft sac._

_Then, it charged. Unable to move, Rebecca was grateful for Jill's presence as she was pulled out of the way, hatchlings bursting beneath her feet. hundreds of legs bore down upon them, the door looming too far in the distance._

_"Run!"_

Rebecca snapped her mind back to the moment. It was not a memory she was keen to relive, not now, not ever. Despite the horror that had still not quite found its way out of her system, her experiences within the walls of that mansion had acted as a rather unconventional form of psychological flooding.

She looked upon the spider before her not as a threat or an object of terror, but rather as something that was relatively harmless in contrast to what it could have been.

She stepped down from the bench, reached into her open locker for a plastic container that had once held an early morning snack. In one swift move, she trapped the spider, holding the lid loosely to prevent its escape.

With more disgust than unease, she returned to the hall, leaning forward to shake her captive out of the open window.

"And don't come back," she warned it.

Her endeavour brought a smile to her face, and she stared down her reflection with pride. So much had changed in such a short space of time. Her high school graduation had barely been a year ago, yet she felt as though she had aged seven in that time.

Clutching at youthful innocence was futile; she doubted that she had any to begin with. Their burden was one no one should face, yet she shouldered it before she was of legal drinking age. The thought alone would have driven any normal mind insane, but Rebecca knew that hers was far from normal and for once in her life she was proud of that fact.

"Happy birthday, Rebecca," she sighed, turning at last from her reflection in the glass.

She had grown used to her birthday passing forgotten, and each year it bothered her more than the last...but not this time. She did not care that the others perhaps did not know her well enough to understand the importance of today, did not care that another milestone would pass uneventful.

'Is this how it feels like to grow up?' she asked herself as she returned to the locker room, replacing the plastic tub and making a mental note to wash it thoroughly.

Just as she pressed closed the metal door, the door behind her swung open forcefully, a familiar figure rushing to a nearby locker.

"Jill?"

Jill jumped, unaware that the room was already occupied.

"Oh God," she gasped, hand to her chest. "Rebecca, you scared the hell out of me."

"Oh, you're one to talk," Rebecca fumed, unfamiliar anger rising in her chest. "Where the hell have you been? We've all been worried out of our minds!"

Jill paused, turning from her momentarily.

"I'm sorry," she apologised. "I should have called. I, uh- I left early this morning, had something to do."

Though she had never heard a lie pass the woman's lips before, Rebecca could tell that this was a poor attempt at one.

"In that old thing?" she asked, nodding at the old jacket. Her hair was uncombed, eyes a little more tired than usual, and when she stepped close enough, the scent of unfamiliar shampoo drifted towards her.

"Jill, were you out all night?"

There was only one possible explanation for her being in such a state if this were true. When an answer was not offered, she gasped, partly from shock and partly in annoyance.

"I've been panicking all morning because you decided to take off and have sex?" Her voice was a hurried whisper.

"Rebecca, please drop it," Jill pleaded, pulling a clean uniform from her locker and beginning to undress.

Rebecca wanted to press the matter, but the desperation in her friend's tone made it so that she could do nothing but obey. If pleasure was her way of dealing with what they all felt, then she was in no position to scold her. It was her life, her decisions, her possible mistake.

"Just call next time, okay?" she sighed.

Before the situation could escalate into an argument, she took note of Jill's uncomfortable body language and left her to the loneliness she silently requested.

"And I thought my sixteenth was strange," she muttered to herself as she made her way back to the office.

* * *

Though she felt much better in her clean uniform, Jill continued to wish that she had found the sense to walk home first rather than heading straight for the station. At least then she could have showered with her own toiletries and not have alerted Rebecca to her seemingly sordid night.

She was only glad that she always kept a spare uniform in her locker, otherwise she would have well and truly dropped herself in it.

Snapping her mind back to her plans for the lab investigation was proving difficult with the absence of her morning routine and the knowledge that she had turned up almost three hours late.

Barry brushed off her sudden reappearance and Brad had acted in much the same way. Of course, the men of the team knew that she could fight her way out of the majority of situations and had more sense than half the precinct put together. She would not have allowed herself to stumble into a dangerous situation, let alone face the need to find her way out of one.

Together with Brad, she had hashed out a rough plan for gathering Intel, mostly involving the monitoring of the main entrance points to the lab and more below-board activities and general sneakiness. If everything went to plan, they would be out of Raccoon in a little over a month.

"Okay, Barry," Rebecca announced as she entered the office in a flurry of movement. "I have us booked on a flight on the twenty-sixth. We fly out from Stoneville, arrive in Alberta. We'll have to drive to the airport, but my cousin said he can pick us all up when we arrive and drive us to Saskatoon. It's safer that way."

Jill listened to the conversation with intent. Had Chris called them yet?

"Thank you," Barry replied, exhausted relief weighing down his words.

In just over a week, they would all be gone. She assumed that Chris would fly with them, perhaps even fly out earlier so that he could prepare wherever it was they would be staying in Paris.

Paris was a beautiful city, one she had seen in passing but had not been offered the time to explore in the way such a place deserved. It pained her to understand the circumstances that would bring her to the city again.

The office door swung open, though she paid no attention to its movement. Everything seemed so bleak now, her time in Raccoon winding to a close. While it had not been perfect, it had been home and she would be sad to turn her back on the happy times she had found there.

"Well I'll be damned," Barry chuckled, pulling her violently back to reality. "Knew you couldn't stay away."

She turned to the new presence in the room, fighting against the rising corners of her lips when she saw the man Barry addressed. Not only had he showered and shaved the layer of stubble she felt suited him quite well, but he had also found his way into uniform; he had certainly not stumbled into the office by accident.

"Ran out of beer," Chris joked, eyes finding hers within moments. "Figured I'd find something better here."

Even in her momentarily dazed state, she recognised that the latter statement had been directed at her. Strangely, she did not feel flattered or pleased at the knowledge that it was she who had led him to return. No, she felt intimidated. Never before had she realised how well his uniform suited his boyishly muscular form, or how the glint in his eye as he flashed that crooked smile seared through flesh and bone to hit where it really counted. He would not have looked out of place in army fatigues, with a cigarette between his lips and rifle resting casually on one shoulder. Somehow, she knew it was a look he had likely worn in days past.

As though his uniform shone as a symbol of masculinity, she suddenly felt way out of her league; like a band geek facing up to the captain of the football team. It ashamed her that she thought of their differences in terms of high school analogies, but that was how he made her feel; as though she were in inexperienced school girl just trying to make sense of her feelings. It was ridiculous; she was a grown woman, had manoeuvred her way through several tricky relationships and dealt with the superficial affections of many colleagues. Why was it so different with Chris?

She tuned out the voices of her teammates as the new information was brought to light. Discomfort and the desire to forge ahead with her own plans overpowered her sense of what would appear conspicuous. Fortunately the others did not appear to notice that she was not absorbing Chris's rather important discovery.

In the end, they all agreed with his plan of action and it was decided that Chris would leave the city shortly before the others, who would join him once their families were settled.

"We should be done by the end of September," Brad explained, drawing her unintentionally into the conversation. "If we don't find anything within a month it's unlikely we'll find anything at all."

"Yeah," Chris agreed. "There's not point wasting time here."

And so it was settled; Brad would remain in Raccoon with Jill, the others would abscond and wait for their arrival.

It was only a month, but after so much had gone wrong in one night she could not help but be host to unsettling trepidation. With so much to do in the next week, this may be the last instance they would all be together for quite a while.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Barry announced, dipping into the cupboard of his desk.

Jill smiled, knowing exactly what his intentions were. She was glad that he had offered to take care of the task himself; had it fallen to her, she would have likely forgotten.

As the small cake was lifted onto Wesker's empty desk, she forced herself to throw an apologetic smile to Rebecca. Of all the days she could have heaped more stress onto her shoulders, today was by far the worst.

"W-what is this?" Rebecca stammered, crossed arms falling straight by her side.

"We were sifting through the personnel files the other day," Jill explained. "We know, Rebecca. Happy birthday."

The young rookie appeared visibly stunned. The question of why she had not revealed the meaning of the day was not one Jill was careful to dwell on; they all had their reasons for silence, and a celebration seemed inappropriately out of place. Had her own come about at such a difficult time, she would have shied away from attention herself.

"You bought me a cake?"

They all laughed at her disbelief, and though she tried to conceal her happiness, a smile broke through.

All work was cast aside in favour of their friend, though at the request of the birthday girl they refrained from bursting into song. The cake was cut, several cans of soda cracked open for an on-duty toast.

Somewhere amongst the chatter and deliciously soft sponge cake, normal found its way into the office, gracing them with its presence for what promised to be the last reprieve for a long time.

Amidst the carefree laughter, Jill's mind wandered to possibilities she was not entirely sure of. What would happen next? If they succeeded in bringing Umbrella to justice, would their lives be able to fall so easily back into place? She had never given much thought to her future, but knew that somewhere along the line she would not have minded a husband to be involved, and children she would complain about but love nonetheless. They were simple wishes, elements of a normal life she had taken for granted until now. What if they lost? Would they fight until old age claimed them, dedicating their life to a fight that yielded no victory, not even change?

From here on out, all that was certain was uncertainty.

"Where did that smile go?" Chris asked as he slumped down into his chair. She had half a heart to answer with the truth, but knew that it would only bring him down and would not help ease her own mind.

"Left it in my locker," she laughed lightly. "I might need it again some day; didn't want to damage it."

She moved aside a little as he wheeled his chair closer to her desk, laying his slice of cake next to her keyboard.

"I'd help you find another one," he spoke nonchalantly, surprising her with the casual nature of his jest. Where was the man she had fought with for so long?

"Have you changed your mind about Paris yet?" he asked when she let silence flourish.

"Have you?"

"Touché," he laughed, almost choking on cake.

The idea of him travelling to a foreign country on his own frightened her in the same way his insistence on moving so close to Umbrella's main HQ did. Clinging to the philosophy of 'the closer you are to danger, the farther you are from harm', she forced herself to believe that it would all work out in their favour.

Dropping her disheartening thoughts, she turned to her own plate and groaned in frustration when she found that she had already consumed her sizeable portion of cake. Comfort eating was another habit she did not wish to fall into.

"You want some?" Chris asked, noticing the direction of her hungry eyes.

For some reason, the word "no" translated into an eager nod. She could not recall the last time her own thoughts had been lost in translation.

Chris broke off an unfairly large portion, careful to catch a particularly creamy area. Rather than hand the helping to her, he held it out, crumbling cake resting between thumb and forefinger.

In an instant she knew that it was inappropriate, that she could not possibly eat it out of his hand. The others would see, they would ask questions and jump to conclusions.

But this was not the first time he had fed her in such a way, often teasing her with his actions. She had never refused in the past, had even 'accidentally' bitten his fingers once. It was platonic and held little connotations, yet her mind began to explain the many reasons for taking it with her own fingers and feeding herself.

It was perhaps a good thing that she paid little attention to her mind those days.

Just as she leaned forward, Chris moved his hand, squashing the cake against her upper lip.

"Oops," he laughed cruelly. Who was he kidding? It was no accident.

Her shoulders fell with an irritated sigh. What did she expect?

She caught the cream with her tongue, pulling the larger chunks of sponge from the mess with her fingertips before she even thought of cleaning what her tongue could not reach.

As it transpired, she did not need to worry herself with this matter, Chris's fingers bringing a tissue to her skin. He moved slowly, wiping the cream and crumbs away as he used his bent forefinger beneath her chin to tilt her head back just a fraction of an inch.

Having been closed at that point, Jill's eyes opened, unintentionally locking with his as he went about his work. Everything froze in that moment, from time to the soiled napkin. Something crackled in the air, reason slowly slipping away. She knew that look, and the feeling; it had preceded the kiss that had changed everything between them.

Reason returned with violent urgency, common sense hammering against her skull, hoping to knock some sense home before the change turned sour.

She turned away, pulling from his tender hold.

"Be careful, Chris," she begged quietly, not quite understanding the smile he suddenly wore.

"I'll try," he joked as he turned back to the cake, presumably to make a serious offer this time.

Why was he smiling? Did everything have to be a joke to him?

"That's not what I meant," she clarified in a harsher tone than intended. Her heart beat heavily against her lungs, breaths coming to her sporadically.

The sudden darkness in his eyes drove her to turn away, frantic beats ceasing abruptly. She did not quite know what to do with herself, but she turned from him, vacating her desk in search of distraction.

She did not understand what she had seen, did not understand what her words could have meant to him.

Somewhere along the line, she had forgotten how easy it was to hurt him.

**AN - Please review :)**


	9. We Are Broken

**Strength Through Wounding**

**AN - **I have to admit, I love Chris and Jill arguing. It seems almost natural for them, really. They're more like an opposite's attract couple, gelling in many ways but not always the expected ones. Anyway, this is the second half of last chapter (though I tweaked the dates a little and added some new stuff) so it sadly (or not) focuses mainly on Chris and Jill.  
I decided to try something new with this chapter. A couple of new things, actually. Though upon reading back through it, I really can't tell, lol. This was another case of a chapter not quite coming out as planned. Oh well, what's done is done. I'm kind of trying to set things up for the sequel with Chris and Jill and their friendship/relationship, but also in a different way (keeping schtum on that one but it's probably obvious). I'm hoping to start (officially) on the sequel plan very soon so I'll let you know as soon as I get it down if it's going ahead.  
Chapter title is from a song by Paramore.

Thank you again to everyone who reviewed:** KT324, Razial, Sparkle Valentine, ditto9, Kenshin13, xSummonerYunax, J. L. Zielesch, cjjs, lunavixen **and **tek.**

_**Chapter Eight** - We Are Broken_

_'Give us life again  
'Cause we just wanna be whole'_

**_August 21, 1998. 11:12am_**

Chris had not been abroad in some time, and as such had grown out of touch with the ways of travel. Slowly but surely, his genius plan to temporarily relocate to Paris had begun to unravel.

Umbrella's presence within Europe was surprisingly strong, and he did not doubt that they would be keeping a careful eye out for the S.T.A.R.S. survivors and their families. Applying for a visa was a sure-fire way to alert them to their movements, but without one their stay in the French capital would be limited to ninety days and they would be required to hold return flight tickets. Ninety days was not a particularly long stretch of time in the grand scheme of things, especially if they turned up promising leads. Deportation was not a risk he was willing to take; deportation could place any one of them firmly into Umbrella's hands.

All that could be done was to move around Europe every few months, hoping that they would not run out of money or be caught. There had been rumours concerning a number of individuals sympathetic to their cause; ex-Umbrella employees and relatives of those harmed by their research. While Chris did not know what to make of these rumours, he hoped that they would find assistance in the form of fellow 'activists', as Rebecca had began to refer to them as.

If anything was found in Paris, at the very least Jill and Brad would be able to remain a further thirty days, arriving in the country a month after the others.

Jill... Part of him was reluctant to leave her, both in Raccoon and in Paris, but a larger part now insisted that the more distance placed between them the better.

He agreed wholeheartedly with her stance on the night they had spent together: it was a one night stand, at least for now. It made no sense to waste energy on a relationship, not now. He could not guarantee that he would be the most pleasant person during the fight, and perhaps he would drive her away.

It terrified him to consider the depths of his feelings for her, validated by that one, perfect night. Pushing them inside in lieu of the platonic friendship she adamantly requested was difficult at first but perhaps the best idea she had come up with in their two-year friendship. Once the initial thrill of her proximity had faded into icy fingers, he found that it came easily to avoid her and to avoid how he felt.

Still, it forced anger to surface when he considered her actions that night. If she would be so ashamed of giving herself to him, as her actions since then had suggested, why had she kissed him, why had she initiated anything? For the first time in his life he could not help but feel used. When feelings for his partner began to surface, he admittedly would not have minded; hell, he would likely have welcomed it, anything for a night with her. Now…now it hurt like hell.

The ring of his cell phone cut through his thoughts, as it did too often these days. Without even thinking, he flipped it open, no thought other than 'this better be important'.

"Oh, so you finally answered."

"Claire?"

Was it too late to hang up? Avoidance had served him well so far and he was sure that it served her just as well. The farther she was from him, the safer she was. If Umbrella thought that they had no contact, they were less likely to hunt her down.

"At least you recognise my voice," she chided. "Would have thought you'd forgotten all about your sister."

"Claire, this really isn't a good time."

"It never is with you!" she screamed, loud enough to startle him. "Do you realise how hypocritical you've been these past few weeks? If I don't answer you hunt me down, but you expect me to tolerate it?"

He had been told on many occasions that his sister bore a temper to rival his own, but had only ever seen this side of her in jest. His own temper had fallen beyond the barriers of his understanding; was this what he exposed others to?

"You don't understand," he insisted. "I explained last time we spoke; I can't keep in contact with you, it's too dangerous."

She snorted in disbelief, and he could visualise a single foot tapping impatiently against the ground.

"Maybe it wouldn't be so dangerous if you explained why? What have you got yourself into? I can help! Above board, below, I've met all kinds of people here."

Stunned silence fell as a frown wrinkled his brow. He should have been immensely concerned by this admission, but all he could focus on was a way to keep her out of harm's way.

"Claire, you're nineteen years old," he sighed. "There is nothing you can do to help other than keep yourself safe and stay out of my way."

"At least Jill had the decency to tell me the truth," she pushed.

"You spoke to Jill?"

Truthfully, he should have seen it coming. When he did not pick up in his own apartment, her attention would turn to the nearest likely alternative; his best friend.

"I called her because I thought you might be with her," she explained, her voice softer this time. "I know how close you are; I figured you'd be looking after her after what happened."

Chris swallowed painfully. Looking after her? Oh, he was looking after her alright; pushed her to the ground, reduced her to tears then bedded her and spent the following week cruelly avoiding her.

'There's nothing cruel about it,' he insisted inwardly. 'She made her feelings on the matter perfectly clear, you're just respecting her wishes'.

"I don't like the silence," Claire spoke, breaking through his fuming thoughts. "Please tell me you're not being a jackass to her. Chris, you always do this!"

"Don't judge me, Claire," he growled. "You're not so perfect yourself."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He considered for a moment replying honestly; she lashed out when she was upset, more often than not at her family. All things considered, it would gain nothing.

"Claire, please drop this," he begged. "I love you, I just want what's best for you and trust me, this is not it. I'll call you soon, okay? In a couple of weeks. Now really isn't a good time."

There was an extended period of background noise before she huffed quietly.

"Alright," she relented. "If it's important enough to provoke an 'I love you', I'll trust you on this one."

"Thank you," he breathed. Claire rarely gave in without a fight, and when she fought it was very often to the death – or as close to it as one could legally get.

"Love you, too, big brother," she laughed gently. "Remember that, and let it guilt you into keeping in touch."

No matter how hard he tried, he could not force a smile as he ended the call. He would not call her, he knew that now. A letter, perhaps? A letter would explain everything and leave no room for misunderstanding. Even this thought carved another painful segment from his heart; she may have been a pain in the ass most days, but he still loved her and he did not like the idea of lying to her anymore than he liked the idea of lying to his teammates.

Once he was in Paris, there was nothing she could do. There was nothing any of them could do. Hopefully Paris would provide them with the leads they needed, and the ordeal would be over in no time at all. Umbrella would fall; they could move back to the States and continue with their lives. If all worked out, the mess that his relationship with Jill had become would untangle and maybe, just maybe their new life would be one they spent together.

Somehow, he knew that the road ahead was rockier than it seemed. Simply keeping his feelings in check was such a difficult task; sooner or later he would put a foot wrong and the possibilities that had begun to flourish would come crashing down around him. After all, it was always those around him who suffered; one day it was bound to strike far too close to home.

* * *

There was a definite air of sadness in the office that day. S.T.A.R.S. badges were all but handed in, the majority of their personal effects packed into boxes of varying shapes and sizes. All of the past two years packed away, all of that hard work undone. Even Rebecca was looking sombre these days.

"September twenty-second," Barry announced suddenly. Jill snapped her head up, looking at her friend through bleary eyes and contemplating his words with a sleep-deprived mind.

"Chris hasn't spoken to you, has he?" he asked once he caught on to her confusion.

"Why would he?" she scoffed. She had rarely seen Chris since Rebecca's birthday and on the occasions she had, all he offered was a polite "hey" or reluctant nod of the head. Despite her insistence on playing it cool, he seemed to have gone for a level several degrees lower than what she had in mind.

"Right," Barry chuckled humourlessly. While the others had also picked up on the sudden wall of ice between the two previously warm partners, none had found the courage to acknowledge or comment upon it. Conflict was not all that surprising where they were concerned. "He booked two tickets for September twenty-second; Stone-Ville to Charles de Gaulle. They're on hold at the airport, you just need to pick them up at the flight desk. Suppose he wanted to make sure you both don't stay any longer than necessary."

She hummed in mild interest. It was impossible to discern the thought behind his actions from so far away.

'It's what you wanted.'

"Not like this," she muttered beneath her breath.

She was so sure that he had felt for her as more than a friend, so sure that their one night together had been more than just that – one night. Now, she was not so sure. How could he act so indifferent? Was that all she had been to him, a meaningless one-night stand?

_"Jill, I-"_

_"Don't."_

No, she meant something to him; he was about to tell her until she cut him off, she was sure of it. Stupidity; that was what forced her to suffer. What harm would it have truly done? Surely it would have been better than the nervous, paranoid mess her days had been since then. Did he love her? Did she care? She was not inexperienced, and yet had not acted in this way after her previous encounters. What was it about Chris that threw the norm completely off-centre? She had never truly cared what her previous boyfriends thought of her, only that they respected her. Why was she suddenly so concerned about what a man who so obviously respected her thought?

'You've never been in love before.'

What kind of stupid reason was that? Love was supposed to be a blissful feeling, one that filled a person with joy and happiness, that made everything seem less significant and the world seem a much better place. Love did not hurt, it did not scar. Love did not rip your entire world from beneath you, forcing you to tiptoe on broken glass. It did not take the taste from your food and pin you with the agonising feeling that your soul was being slowly peeled from your being.

No, love could not be the reason.

"Anything I can help you with?" Rebecca asked quietly. Jill laughed, wishing that she could. If she and all her twenty-three years and failed relationships could not inform a solution, the nineteen-year-old and her self-professed inexperience sure as hell would not.

Rebecca seemed to sense her discomfort, and sought to change the subject of conversation lest she find herself on the wrong end of an apparently poisonous tongue.

"Have you seen the news lately?" she asked.

Jill shrugged. The television often ran in the background but she seldom paid attention to what was being said. It was the same old bad news every day.

"Three more people have disappeared in the past month," the rookie explained. "Two from the Arklay area, one from the neighbourhood just off the pass. Apparently the pass guy left his house to investigate a noise in the middle of the night, never came back."

"Why haven't we heard about this?" Jill demanded, fury rising too easily.

"They don't tell us anything these days," Rebecca frowned. "Besides, Irons is touting it as a new serial killer, wants to give the case to the new unit. They blocked the forest off following the explosion, but some kids still sneak past. He's saying some copycat is milking the aftermath of the 'Arklay cannibals'. Personally, I think something didn't get caught in the blast. There were dogs in the forest when we landed, who knows what else could be out there?"

Once again, Irons' incompetence did not fail to astound her. The cover-up had Umbrella written all over it and she could only imagine his glee at the size of the pay check they would undoubtedly be slipping him this time.

No wonder he dragged the 'cannibal' investigation out as long as he did. She did not like to consider how many lives could have been saved had he not been hiding behind his greed; the thought made her physically sick.

'Serve and protect' was not a motto worthy of the R.P.D. under Irons' command.

Chris' voice reached them before the door swung open, Brad following hot on his heels. It pleased her to see that all had been forgotten – if not yet forgiven – in the weeks since the pilot's abandonment. Brad had tried harder than the rest of them put together, and deserved their respect if not their gratitude. It was perhaps a sign of a marked improvement in Chris' attitude that he had once again begun to treat their old friend as a member of the team. The same applied for Barry; a once strained relationship now ran as smooth as it initially had.

Why was it then that their friendship – the strongest within the group – had begun to fray at the edges?

The day of his departure was fast approaching, and every sleepless night that brought it ever closer drove home the knowledge that she truly did not want him to leave. It was almost enough to make her consider dropping her plans and following him to Europe. Heaven knew that they needed the time together, to repair whatever it was that had broken between them.

She waited until Brad turned for the photocopier before approaching her partner – if that was what he was these days.

"Hey," she spoke softly, achieving a friendly smile with the last of her waning energy.

Chris looked up briefly, eyes darting back down to the paper he continued to write upon once he acknowledged her presence.

"Hey," he replied, not half as enthusiastic. Fighting the urge to drop all friendliness from her tone, she closed her eyes and visualised herself breaking through the wall he suddenly erected.

"So I found a spare crate of beer when I was cleaning the other day," she lied. "Rebecca is staying with the Burtons tonight, and I was wondering if you wanted to come over and-"

"I can't," he stated bluntly.

She swallowed harsh words. He may have a genuine reason.

"Why not?" she asked. Whatever reason he had to offer, she was sure it was nowhere near good enough.

"We're all busy these days," he muttered. "I have to pack."

"I could bring the beer over," she suggested. "It would be ironic. You know, you helped me unpack when I moved here."

"I haven't forgotten." His voice seemed so emotionally detached, as though he were simply going through the motions for her sake and not even giving consideration to her options. "I can manage on my own."

Her impatience became increasingly difficult to hide, as did the frown that she fought to keep from her forehead.

"Fine, you pick a date. Any time, anything. I just want to spend some time with you before you leave. Something normal before we take the plunge, you know. Like old times."

The rattling sigh that escaped his throat echoed what she had feared; 'old times' could never be returned to, not anymore. Something was different, and no amount of beer and amicable chatter could disguise that. A dull longing and the fear of an uncertain future.

"I can't," he repeated, his own lips twisting downward this time. It was obvious that he was hiding behind an ugly mask, and no amount of prying could peel it away. "I fly out in three days, there isn't time."

"Then stay," she asked. "Your ticket is exchangeable; you can fly out a few days later, wait for Barry and Rebecca-"

"I can't," Chris interrupted. His expression turned sombre and he made sure to look her deep in the eye. "All practicality aside, we both know it's best if I leave now."

Stunned once again by his words, she found herself incapable of reply. Words of her own pushed against her throat, but none surfaced. Would he truly leave without at least attempting to remedy whatever had went wrong?

Still, she could not find fault with his words. If he left, he would take with him all that tempted her, would sever contact while her sense was still at least somewhat intact.

"C-Chris, don't-" she stuttered, turning with him as he made to leave. "Don't leave things like this...please."

"You left, Jill," he growled. "I'm just going the distance."

As he left she felt the cool chill of fresh air breeze into the office. She looked up, the desk behind her digging almost painfully into her thighs from behind. No bemused utterance found its way to her, no confused glance shot in her direction. It was perhaps a small consolation that the others had not noticed the words they had exchanged.

A strange sensation overcame her then. A chill settled into her bones, skin seemed to slip from the muscle it covered; she did not entirely feel that she existed in that moment, and knew that she did not quite wish to. Anger shook her hands, though pain stole her sense of direction. She had half a mind to storm after him, demanding to know what made him think he had the right to treat her the way he had been lately, but the fragmented parts of the other half told her to keep quite and let it all pass.

Because after all was said and done, he was right; she had left, had rebuffed what she now understood to be plain friendliness. Had he mistook her frightened hostility? Did he believe that she wished for them to be less than friends? At the very least, she would have liked him to acknowledge that they had spent the night together, not carry on as though it meant nothing at all.

With a humourless, sarcastic laugh she heard the voice of one of her now ex-friends drifting through her consciousness.

_"That man has had so much sex it must have lost all meaning by now."_

Was she just another victim of his seemingly insatiable libido? What of his words before she had left; was he truly preparing to reveal hidden romantic feelings for her or was he trying to admit that he had been selfish in his loneliness?

Pain faded, anger flaring as her pride prodded the snarling beast. She wanted answers, and the respect he had once held her in.

It was time to sort out this misunderstanding, or sever all ties before the burn set in.

* * *

There was a small café just down the street, a venue quiet enough to hear the echoes of even the faintest thought. She loved to sit in that little café, often with her laptop on her knee as she watched the world rush by. That was the problem with this city; everyone seemed to be in an almighty hurry.

Her eyes found a young girl across the street, not much older than she. Legs bound by an impossibly tight pencil skirt, hair pulled back tightly from her face, lips stained rouge against a pale complexion. A young girl in an adult world, likely with a purpose.

Dark bangs fell into her eyes and she blew at them in annoyance, brushing brunette strands aside. When she returned her curious eyes to the sidewalk, the girl had disappeared into the crowd.

"People grow up far too quickly these days," a male voice chuckled behind her. She smiled at the familiarity in his deep tones but frowned at his sudden presence. Did he not know that this was where she went when she wished to be alone?

"That's cheap coming from you," she noted, eyeing up his battered Social Distortion jacket and beaten Chuck Taylors. "You plan on leaving puberty behind you any time soon?"

He noticed the direction of her gaze and laughed loudly, almost spilling the coffee he placed upon the low table before them.

"Come on," he defended. "Social Distortion is a timeless band. Like The Cure, Ramones, Misfits-"

"Keep listing poser punk bands," she teased. "It's really helping your case."

"Well, the posers know how to pick good music. Oh, and The Cure aren't punk. Post-punk maybe."

"Derek, I am not getting into another argument with you over damn music," she chuckled, throwing her head back onto the soft cushions of the couch.

"Shame," he sighed, squinting at the lid of her laptop. "You have pretty good taste. AC/DC, right? Is that The Cult? But what the hell are Pantera doing on there? You never struck me as a metal head."

She groaned in frustration, drawing unwanted attention from the next table. Though she expressed disinterest, inside she was smiling. It was somehow not appropriate for a nineteen-year-old girl to enjoy heavy metal and the rush being at the wheel of a good engine provided, especially not in the city. High school had been tolerable at best, but it was the years after that had brought her home to what her family often referred to as 'her kind'. She did not care if it gave her a bad reputation; she was not looking to fall in with the crowd, she was looking to better her life and have fun, as all college-bound teenagers did.

"Pantera is one of my brother's bands," she explained. "I stole a few of his CDs and thought they were pretty cool."

"I suppose Zeppelin is another one of your brother's bands?"

A smirk could not be hidden this time.

"No, Zeppelin is all mine."

Her smile turned bitter at the thought of the many CDs that lay forgotten in her room. Possessing that which was rightfully her brother's no longer amused her as it once had. Although, she agreed that it at least gave her reason to speak to him. Conversation was wearing pretty thin these days.

"You okay, Red?" Derek asked, picking up on her discomfort.

"Yeah, I'm fine," she lied. "I just...miss him, you know?"

"You are close?"

How would one define 'close'? In some ways he was her brother, in others he was her best friend, and on some occasions he was her father, and exerted as much control over her as she was sure their father would were he still with them. He would do anything for her and she for him; unconditional love that she was sure Derek would not be able to understand.

Eleven years ago, they had lost everything. All they had was each other, and though she had expected him to turn away and lash out as most teenagers would have done when hit by the loss of their parents, he had instead turned to her, making sure that he made up for the love that was lost. He would walk her to school, prepare her lunch when their aunt was too busy, even help her with her algebra homework. Lord knew he was useless at math.

She had cried an awful lot in those days, over a loss she had not truly understood. He had cried also, but would never admit to it. He would fight, drink, spend weeks at a time in detention and began to smoke, much to her annoyance. In the end she had broken through his state of the art defences and ever since that day they had been each other's crutch, confidant and it had been the two of them against the world.

He moved away when he was eighteen, followed his dreams and became a pilot. Sadly, his dreams had not withstood the toll of his temper. He was passionate and dedicated, but too hard-headed for his own good.

"I'll take that as a yes," Derek coughed. He never was one to dive into deep conversations, and that was what she liked about him; when the going got tough, she could always seek him out and he would bring her back to the world she knew she loved.

"We haven't spoken much lately," she confessed. The thought of what he must have been going through to shun contact so readily frightened her.

Something had him spooked, something had twisted his perception and she had an extremely bad feeling about it all. She had taken to checking his local news online every night, but the website of every local newspaper had been down for the last month at the very least. Reports from other sources - more widespread media and tabloids - were sketchy at best. Mostly word about the impending dissolution of his unit, and the deaths of several men he had known well; no sign as to what happened to them, only rumours. It felt to her like a media blackout and that was what worried her; he was not unintelligent but if he had stumbled upon something big she did not know if he would be careful enough to make it through in one piece, especially when emotionally-charged.

"I've been thinking about taking a road trip," she announced. "I have a week off at the end of September...it seems like a good time. You can come if you want."

Derek appeared thoughtful as he mulled over this proposition. She knew that he was good with most machinery and currently owned a beast of a Hog. It would be a rush riding beside - or more likely, behind - it.

"Can't," he settled on after a moment's pondering. "Promised my mom I'd visit for a few days, won't have time for any detours."

She honestly had not expected him to agree. Part of her was glad; she often preferred riding alone, and believed that this would be one of those occasions.

"Where will you be going?" he asked. "Just out of curiosity."

"Michigan," she revealed. "Maybe. I don't want to leave, but I'm worried about him."

"Your brother, right?"

Of course it was her brother. Only hours had passed since their last conversation but she knew that it would all rest on the next. She did not know if he was still in the State he now called home. He could be anywhere, anywhere in the world. If it took a month to find him on the telephone how long would it take to find the man in person? He refused to reveal where he was, where he was going, what he was doing and what the hell had happened to drive him into avoidance; she realised that this may very well be a lost cause.

"Oh shit," she exclaimed as her eyes fell back to the screen of her laptop. "I have a class in five minutes! This is totally your fault."

Derek spluttered into his raised cup, coffee dripping down his chin.

"How the hell do you figure that?"

"I don't, I just like how it sounds."

He mocked her silently, knowing that she could see his expression in the reflection of the window. She would not mind, she never did. At the most, he would find himself nursing a dead arm for the rest of the day but the feeling would return eventually.

Laptop fell into oversized bag, latte drained hastily, and she turned on her heel to leave with a quick goodbye.

It was barely a split-second later that Derek saw a small wallet that was not his resting by his feet on the coffee table. He reached for it, pulling its bulk across the varnished table as he waved frantically in her direction.

All thought of returning said wallet to its owner dissipated as it slipped against his fingers, a small set of passport-sized photos fluttering to his knee. His companion smiled at him from each frame, her attractive features twisted into various goofy expressions. Beside her, a man; dark brown hair, eyes that could have been hers. He appeared to be thoroughly unimpressed with being dragged into the photo booth, though on the last frame he smiled as the girl shouted into his ear. A ridiculous grin, endearing in its almost juvenile quality; it was her smile...obviously the man was her brother.

"Hey, Redfield!" he yelled, halting her in the doorway.

"Oh thank you!" she blushed as she rushed back, almost tripping over a chair at least half her height on the way. "I swear I'll lose this one of these days."

And with that, she left, leaving only thought of Michigan and a misplaced brother behind.

* * *

Claire's smiling visage disappeared as he tugged on the old photograph, careful not to rip the paper. It was the last photograph; the last item that identified the locker as his own. It seemed so barren without his personal effects, but the R.P.D. was no longer his home. There was no sense in being sentimental.

He had been reluctant to clear out his desk, remove the guitar that had lain there for far longer than he could remember, and pack the trophies that the others had begged him to take. He possessed the originals at home; those in the office were simply Wesker's way of rubbing his team's success in Irons' face.

The door opened beside him; pushed with force but passed with casual nonchalance by his partner. Her presence both comforted and irritated him. Why did she press the matter?

She did not speak as she delved into the depths of her own locker, fumbling with something he could not see. Her stance was awkward; registering his presence but trying so hard not to react to it that she appeared stiff and almost mechanical in her movements.

He could almost hear a static buzz fill the space between them, white noise just waiting for an imprint. Truthfully, he felt bad for rebuffing her friendly advance earlier. A night of normality was the perfect remedy for the current gloom, but it was the thought of being alone with her that frightened him. He did not trust himself and in lightu of recent events he trusted her no more. Die Hard and a little beer would likely turn into an in-depth exploration of just how many spare condoms lingered by his bed.

'You may want to be careful,' his conscience told him. 'You've heard the rumours, so has she.'

It was all he could do to hide the cringe that came with thoughts of past gossip. Just how many women did she think he had been with; how many casual encounters? Truthfully, there weren't many. Girls would gossip, exaggerations would turn to facts, and somewhere along the line he had stopped correcting whoever spoke these misconceptions. It worked in his favour most of the time; his popularity amongst the male members of staff hardly took a hit and suddenly he found that there were many attractive women just dying to know if the rumours were true.

He had never thought of how his reputation may have affected the opinions of the women he came to care about. Jill hardly had the best track record of relationships. Though he had never found the courage to ask, he doubted that she had experienced a single one night stand other than the one they had shared. She was the kind of girl who fell in love, not distributed her affection freely. Yet she had initiated that night, knowing of his largely exaggerated history.

'She expected something more,' his heart told him. To give herself to him unconditionally, she must have connected the act to feelings that ran perhaps as deep as his own. If that were true, was her behaviour due to the same conflict that had plagued him since that night?

Deep down, he felt as though he should be ashamed of himself.

"Jill, I've been thinking-" he began, unsure of what exactly he was to say. Something to remedy his previous bitterness, he hoped.

"About your self again, no doubt," she spat, features still concealed by the metal of her locker door.

Her words stung, buffered only by anger at being spoken to so harshly when he had done nothing in the moments preceding. It did not matter what he had done before that time; this was the here and now.

"Careful with that tongue," he snapped back, unable to fight the natural response of waging a verbal war with her. "Might get frostbite."

The violent clang of metal against metal reverberated around the room as she slammed her locker shut, whatever it was that she had been searching for suddenly forgotten.

"You barely speak a word to me in almost a week and when you finally do, it's to insult me?" she scoffed, disbelief only existing in her words.

It hurt him to realise that his behaviour did not appear to surprise her.

"Actually, I was about to start a conversation," he corrected. "You may want to hold your venom a little while longer next time."

Sinking into the usual cesspit of anger and bitterness, he knew that he would not be crawling out any time soon. It was easier to fight with her, and he did not know how he would react to tenderness after the chill.

"I'm sorry," she apologised. What surprised him was that she was genuine, even bowing her head in shame. Anger ebbed away slowly; what the hell was he supposed to feel? A maelstrom of emotion raged within him and he could not decide which to bring to the forefront. The strain of them all would surely cripple him.

"No you're not," he sighed, though he was unsure if she heard.

"Chris, I want answers," she demanded softly. "Why are you avoiding this? Why are you avoiding _me_? I thought we were friends, or has that changed?"

Silence again, broken this time by a soft breath of disappointment. What did she want him to say? The truth? He dared not speak the truth.

"I'm leaving soon," he spoke. It was all he seemed to say lately, as though it were an automated response. "I can't-"

"Are you?" Her interruptions were beginning to annoy him. "Or are you running away?"

His entire being froze, even his breath caught in his lungs. He had been searching for the answer to this question for many days now. There was much to look to in Paris, but also much to leave behind; Raccoon, S.T.A.R.S., late friends, betrayal. Paris promised a new life and time to think without outside distractions. Paris promised a month without her influence, without her presence clouding every one of his senses. If he were to keep his feelings in check and work out where they stood, he needed to be far from her, where they could make no mistakes and where they could not hurt one another.

"I...I don't know," he choked, amazed that he had found the voice to speak so honestly. If his sister's words were to be believed, all he ever did was run away.

Jill covered her lips with her hand, pulling fingertips across skin as she mulled over unknown thoughts.

"Was it a mistake?" she asked.

He was hurt that she was capable of such thoughts. How could it have been a mistake?

"Jill-"

"What happened?" she pleaded, voice weighed down by tears he hoped to God she did not shed. "What was it to you? You barely even speak to me anymore, Chris. You act as though nothing happened but you're still pushing me away."

He blinked at her words, head aching from the pressure of her accusation. The woman before him was not the friend he had known. Though she had suffered from the workings of love and romance before, she had always remained strong, pride intact when everything else slipped away. He had never seen her in such a frenzy, so wound up over a matter that should have been trivial in the grand scheme of things.

"It didn't happen," he told her, echoing what she had come to realise many days ago. However, she was not given the answer that she sought; had it been a mistake?

In many ways, perhaps it had.

"Of course," she whispered, choking on her words. "But...why are you avoiding this? One night stand aside, we're still friends and I don't want to leave things like this between us."

Anger resurfaced, pushing troubling thoughts to the forefront of his mind. He did not see why he should do all the work when it was her attitude that had changed the air between them.

"Then how do you want them?" he asked, his voice almost a growl. She was taken aback by his sudden aggressiveness but reacted with as calm and composed a demeanour as she could find it in her to put across.

"Back to how they used to be," she requested with a smile and wide eyes that almost swayed him to her point of view. But his anger was too powerful a force to overcome.

"You don't want that," he laughed. "Things _were_ normal, they were fine. I went back there and you shot me down."

"Chris, no!" she insisted.

"Don't put all this on me!" he roared, loud enough to force her back a half step. "I was fine, I was just _peachy_. You were the one who wanted to put it all behind us; you were the one who told me to 'be careful' when all I was trying to be was your friend! You don't want that, Jill; you don't know what you want."

Something switched in her eyes, and he could feel the effect of his words. It seared like a white hot dagger to the skin, but he had no apologies to offer. He spoke the truth, why should he apologise? If she was unable to handle it she should not have pressed the matter.

"I never meant it like that," she professed. "I was scared; I didn't _want_ for things to change."

He laughed bitterly, confused when she failed to see the humour in her admittance.

"We had _sex_, Jill!" he pointed out. "What did you think would happen? That we could brush it aside and never speak of it again?"

His silence was met with hers. They had been friends for so long, and his feelings for her had clouded his judgement of such issues in recent months. Even so, something lingered in the crossed lines that ran from one friend to another and it had not slipped past their attention; each felt it, though neither was willing to admit to it. It was obvious to both that even a kiss would bring about a cataclysmic change. So why let things go so far?

He should have known better than to press the subject when it was his temper that spoke, but he was riled up and was in some sick way enjoying the closest they had been to a conversation in almost a week.

Confusion gripped her delicate features and she fought desperately against the rush of feeling that came forth. The floodgates were open, and not all of what passed was pleasant.

"I've made such a mess of things," she whispered, perhaps admitting to guilt.

"Yeah," he agreed, though it did not echo his true feelings. "You should have realised that before you started all this."

"What?" Her voice was stronger this time; sharp edges as opposed to fraying doubt. He knew that his accusation was inappropriate; he was placing blame when there was none to be cast about.

"Who kissed who, Jill?"

Why could he not stop talking? It was his pride that spoke, wounded by her rebuffal when he had only tried to do right by her. It told him that she needed to be reminded of her place in all this, of what she had done that could have been done differently to avoid this mess in the first place.

"Oh no," she gasped disbelievingly. "You did not just say that."

Her anger added fuel to his furnace and he rounded on her, making sure to look her in the eye as he spoke.

"You act like I'm at fault, but you were the one who wanted to forget what happened, you were the one who made the rules. To hell with what I thought, with what I _felt_. Why did you even kiss me in the first place? What did you think would happen? If you were just looking for a quick-"

The palm of her hand cracked against his cheek, the pain welcomed by the heart that scolded him something terrible. When he looked to her again he saw that her cheeks glistened with newly shed tears. Suddenly, malice left him in the cold, shaking from the weight of what he had said, of what he had done.

"You- you better check yourself, Chris," she spoke gently, trying her best to maintain an even tone through her anguish. "You said that no matter what you do or who you become you will always come back; did you ever think that one of these days I might not want you to?"

Her composure had faltered significantly and he had been left with no reasoning for what he had inflicted. Whether or not she had hurt him or damaged his pride, she did not deserve what he had dealt. Her fault had been at a misunderstanding; his was intentional and sadistically malicious. A wish to inflict as much pain as she had dealt. He never expected to deal a whole lot more.

Her hair flicked in the artificial breeze as she turned, and he reached out to take hold of her arm. She was pulled to his body in rush of movement, her warmth soothing in his arms. But she fought against his hold, against his hypocritical attempt to comfort her. It was intimacy that had forged the foundation of the wall that now stood between them; how could it possibly heal her?

"Don't," she instructed as she succeeded in pulling away, heading for the door without a moment's pause for thought.

As she lingered on the threshold, he watched her turn again, drawing a shaking breath before addressing him, adding an afterthought to the mistaken words he could still feel, burned in to the surface of his skin.

"If you find my friend, tell him I said thank you," she breathed unsteadily. "Because for one night, he made me feel…adequate. And that's not something I feel often these days."

The door slammed shut behind her, leaving the imprint of her words upon his guilt. He had not asked for her evaluation of that night, of what it meant if romance was taken from the equation. He had not asked, but she had revealed nevertheless.

Strange, the knowledge that her experience had been a pleasant one did not bring tender relief to his conscience. It stuck in his gut like a knife, twisted at the hilt until there was nothing left but regret and the deeply painful knowledge that he had needlessly hurt one of the few people he truly cared about.

It burned through his veins, igniting fury deep within. Before he knew what was coming, his fist ploughed into the steel surface of his locker door, again and again and again, until he cried out weakness that flowed beneath the pain.

It was possible that his hand was broken; he did not care to move his fingers. The thin metal had bent against the repeated impact, likely damaged irreparably. But why should he care? It was no longer his locker, these were no longer his changing rooms; this was no longer his precinct.

And maybe, just maybe, Jill was no longer his friend.

In that moment, the pain in his knuckles was inconsequential. He could lose the hand; the hand mattered not to him. Hell, take his entire arm. But take Jill, take his friends...

To Chris Redfield, that was where loss truly began.

**AN - Please review :)**


	10. Crossing The Frame

**Strength Through Wounding**

**AN - **I'll keep it short and sweet this time. In my original plan, this was the last chapter. Technically it still is...the next chapter was the original epilogue so it brings the story to where I originally wanted to end it, and the final chapter will be a lead-in to the sequel. I hope you enjoy :).  
Chapter title is from a song by Coheed and Cambria.

Thank you again to everyone who was kind enough to take the time to review: **Sparkle Valentine, ditto9, Wootabulous, J.L. Zielesch, Ultimolu, Kenshin13, cjjs, KT324, tek, xSummonerYunax, Razial **and **Rock Lees Lotus. **I'm trying to keep on top of replies, but I appear to be slipping lately, so forgive me. I do appreciate every comment! Also, I noticed a few more added this to their favourites so a big hello and thank you to all of you :).

**_Chapter Nine_**_ - Crossing The Frame_

_'I left in a sudden rush and never said why,  
You couldn't know that I had no goodbyes.'_

**_August 23, 1998. 7:50pm._**

The days had trickled past with the consistency of thick syrup, clogging every sense of what he knew. Raccoon was his home, however troublesome his time there might have been. He found it hard to digest that at nine fifteen the following morning, he would be gone.

He double checked the name on his flight ticket, ensured that his passport was with him and that the details of the hotel he would be staying at until a suitable alternative was found were correct. Everything seemed to be in order, nothing left to do now but sleep.

Toxic particles burned the back of his throat as he inhaled the last of his cigarette. Given the tightness of their future budget and the implications upon his health, he toyed with the idea of quitting after the packet had been smoked, but knew that it was unrealistic; he had attempted to quit before and had gone three days when Wesker pressed a carton into his hands and ordered him to take a long cigarette break before returning to work.

Too many things were changing; why add to the difference?

He stubbed the cigarette out against the edge of his desk and stood at once to slip into his jacket. She was gone, that much was obvious. Waiting around for her any longer was pointless. In fact, the whole idea that she would listen and wasn't currently avoiding him was absurd.

As time wound on, he knew that he should have honoured her wish not to leave things between them in such a mess. His head ached every time he considered their final 'conversation'. If only his mind had been clearer, he knew he could have handled things so much better. Perhaps then they would be spending this night together as friends, and not tiptoeing around each other like strangers.

She did not deserve what he had thrown at her, but he had thrown it nonetheless and she had reeled from the impact. Would things ever be the same again? In that moment, he was not sure.

The door to the office swung open and he turned instinctively to the opening. Jill's casual expression turned to one of emptiness and she allowed the door to close, stepping back into the hallway quickly and quietly.

"Jill, wait!"

She was gone, and his words hit only the polished oak of the heavy door. Forgetting all sense of pride and righteousness, he dashed out into the hallway, faster than her legs could carry her away from him. He was gentle when he reached for her arm, enough that he could feel the thin fabric of her cardigan move between skin.

"Please, just listen to me," he begged.

"Why?" she demanded. "Every time I listen to you, I hear things I really don't want to."

A tug within his gut told him to pull away, to allow her to walk and leave things the way they were. But he did not want to. She needed to know that he was sorry, that he wanted her to be there at the airport as he left, knowing that things between them would soon be back to how they had once been.

"I'm flying out soon," he told her, aware that she did not know the exact time and date of his departure. "I'd love for you to-"

"To warm your bed for another night?" she interrupted with a curled upper lip. He could see now that she was fighting to remain composed. "Because that's all I'm looking for, didn't you know?"

"I'm sorry," he admitted, fingers still loose around her arm. "Last time we spoke…I was hurt and confused and I said things I shouldn't have."

"But you meant them?"

He could find no reply to this. At the time, he had meant what he had said, though his heart had not held the same sentiment as his vocal cords. They were words, not feelings; words could lie, and his sure as hell had that day.

"No," he insisted. "Jill, you have no idea how much you mean to me, how much our _friendship_ means to me. I may be careless with my words sometimes, but I don't ever mean to be careless with your feelings. I know that I hurt you and I am sorry."

She turned from him and he released her arm once he was sure that she would not flee, allowing her freedom of movement as she raised an unsteady hand to pinch the bridge of her nose.

"Sorry is getting a little old, Chris," she laughed bitterly. "But if we're staying on that topic, I'm sorry about what happened that night. I never should have kissed you, or-"

"I care about you," he insisted, breaking through her words before she took back the sentiment of their time spent together. "Otherwise I never would have allowed things to go as far as they did. I don't regret what happened, Jill. I don't want you to ever think that."

Words, it seemed, escaped her. For a reason he could not discern, he pulled her close and was surprised to find that she did not fight him. His tenderness surprised even himself.

Then, she pulled back, fist swiping at shed tears.

"You can't do this," she growled. "You can't…you can't keep trying to charm me like this!"

Charm her? He had no ulterior motive, only the wish to apologise and to have her by his side on his final day on American soil.

"I'm not trying to do anything!" he insisted, tone harsher than he had intended. He had promised himself that no matter what she said, he would not lash out. He deserved whatever she threw at him and he would take it like the man he ought to be.

She paused with words on the tip of her tongue, breath trapped within lungs he wagered felt as empty as his own in that moment. After a moment's pause she let out a frustrated breath and shook her head, turning from him as she continued her stubborn journey down the hallway.

"So you're just going to leave things like this?" he shouted after her, halting her progress momentarily. Though she did not show him her face, he could tell that she wanted this no more than he. "Jill, please…"

"Just leave already," she told him in a small, fractured voice he barely recognised as hers.

He could not stop her as she walked away without so much as a backward glance; shoulders hunched defensively, expression unknown.

Part of him left with her, and the emptiness left in its wake drew him back into the office, closer to tears than he had felt in years.

'She gave up,' a small voice told him. He had waited so long to be granted a chance with her and now that he finally had, he had thrown it away. More than that, he had hurt her. That in itself was unforgiveable.

Two years of friendship, left to an uncertain future.

His cell phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored the sensation. If it wasn't her, he didn't want to know.

'She walked away,' the voice continued, despair turning quickly to anger. Whether it was at himself or at his partner, he did not know. He had promised that he would not hold her to fault, but the instinctive reaction to blame anyone and everyone but himself threatened to surface if he could not resolve what he felt.

His cell phone rang again, all attention drawn to the irritation of the vibrations. Before he knew what he was doing, the cell phone was in his hand, and moments later existed in several pieces of varying size and shape as they bounced off the wall above his desk. Fragments landed amidst the mess, others bouncing onto Jill's neatly arranged space, one almost knocking over the dated picture of her father she kept next to her monitor.

Resolve found its way to him in this moment of violent fury; a path ahead just waiting to be walked. Perhaps it was for the best that she was the one to walk out; the thought of saying goodbye to her was unbearable at times. Severance was on her this time.

At least, that is what he forced himself to believe.

* * *

He knew she was calling. He always knew. His cell phone was never far from sight and he was forever texting his friends, even in the midst of conversation. There was no possible way he would not see her name flashing upon the screen.

"Pick up," Claire muttered as she was greeted once again by a seemingly never-ending series of rings.

Again, no luck.

She furiously ended the call, swearing violently at a passerby that almost knocked the stupid piece of technology from her hand. It had been a gift from Chris for her nineteenth birthday; a constant reminder to keep in touch when her old cell had fallen apart and she had shown an aversion to using public telephones. Ironic how now he was the one person she could never get a hold of on the damn thing.

"Chris cell," she read aloud as she redialled. She was sure that he had disconnected his landline.

Three rings this time, then a voice.

"Hey," spoke Chris's voice, more cheerful than it had been the last time she had heard it.

"Finally!" she exclaimed prematurely.

"This is Chris," his voice continued. "Leave a message and- Well, you know the deal."

"Chris…" Where were the words she had prepared? "Chris, you have to call me. I did some research and I… I know what happened."

Her words became but breath, memories of her late-night research in the library with the editor of the student body newspaper rushing to the forefront of her mind. To say that she had been shocked by what she found would be an understatement. Chris had landed himself in varying degrees of trouble in the past, from simple detention to one wrong word shy of a court martial, but she had never feared for him as she did now. She did not doubt a word of what had been said, but knew that the opposition he faced was both enormous and dangerous.

"You've always been there for me when I needed someone," she continued, choking on tears she chased down with a hollow-hearted threat. "I just wish you would realise and accept when you need someone to be there for you."

She felt wetness against her cheek and laughed in frustrated humiliation as she wiped the tears from her flushed skin.

"You bastard," she chuckled. "You're making me cry now."

If he was in possession of all his senses, this news would surely make him call.

"I can't keep worrying about you," she sighed. "Aside from the fact that you're totally not worth it, I can barely concentrate on my studies. Mom and dad saved for years to get me here, and I don't want to throw that away."

There was also pride, and the family name. Chris had made no secret of his desire to enter the armed forces, as their own father had many years before family life; his college fund had pooled into Claire's, allowing her to attend her first choice college and live as comfortable a lifestyle as she saw fit. She failed to see the humour in the fact that her older brother had left the Air Force at roughly the same age their father had, hoping only that her studies had more longevity than their mother's; though she had no fixed career in mind she had many courses in her sights and intended to go the distance.

"Look, big brother." Her voice was more assured this time. "I have some time off next month and if I don't hear from you by then, I'm coming to you."

She swayed where she stood as the thin crowd surged around her. So many faces, but none that she knew. The phone was clasped tightly to her chest, no evidence of formerly shed tears on her cheeks. Every breath she drew in added to the urge to just jump on her bike and find her way to Chris right away.

Eventually she moved from her position and continued on her way back to her dorm. Though she hoped that he would contact her, deep down she hoped that he did not. It had been too long since she had last seen her brother; any excuse to drop by was welcomed.

For all the people in New York City, she still found herself feeling incredibly alone.

* * *

**_August 24, 1998. 1:45am._**

The weight of her thoughts could have crushed her that night. If not, she was sure the guilt would. She knew that it was not the heat or the humidity that kept her awake that night; August never brought much in the way of discomfort.

Sleep was a rare commodity when much of her time and energy was focused on the coming months, and now that she had hours to spare her mind refused to fall into the slumber her body craved.

The LED display of her alarm clock glared back at her, adding to the frustration that was building to a crescendo she hoped would come to pass soon.

'Guilt, Valentine,' she reminded herself. 'You wanted an apology, you got one.'

Why had it not been enough?

She had expected more silence, possibly even anger. Either anger or a conditional surrender; he would want both parties to accept blame, and he would ask for it bitterly. What she had not expected was a full-blown apology, and the assurance that their night together had meant something – whatever that may have been – to him. It had caught her off guard, nullified every response she had rehearsed over and over in her mind.

Perhaps she had been too harsh?

No, she had most definitely been too harsh. All he had wanted was to say goodbye, to have her there as he stepped into a new life…and she had refused, had told him to leave and walked away.

What truly hurt was that she did not know which of them was more at fault, not anymore. She did not even know what time he flew out.

Tangled in sheets, she rolled towards her bedside table, plucking the phone from its cradle as she recited his number in her mind.

"The number you have dialled is currently unavailable."

Of course, he had disconnected his landline weeks ago. Would he even answer his cell this late?

There was no answer from his cell, only the usual phrase that led in to his voicemail. He never checked his voicemail; leaving a message would be pointless.

She did not bother to replace the phone, and let it fall to the floor instead.

Her intention had never been to leave bitterness between them, but lately their rapport had fallen into the tried and tested method of hurt and humiliation. In many ways it felt as though they barely knew each other, though she knew that no two people could possibly be more acquainted.

But what had previously been amicable had turned frustrating and quite unnerving. No matter what he threw at her, she found that her feelings for him did not change in the slightest. Conversely, she had put him through hell in the past and he had stood by her through the worst of it.

Was this what people meant when they spoke of unconditional love?

It was terrifying.

'Would things have been any different if Wesker had not betrayed us?'

She did not know the answer, and was willing to bet that Chris was none the wiser.

There was no chance of sleep that night. Resigning herself to this fact, she pushed herself off the soft mattress, dragging her feet as she made for the refrigerator. There was not much that lined its shelves, but she made sure that there was always something highly calorific hidden away for moments such as these.

She could not bring herself to open the door, eyes fixed on the magnetic calendar Rebecca had filled in on her arrival. A large blue circle had been drawn thickly around the twenty-forth, the days that followed devoid of any markings. August twenty-forth was the day everyone would leave. Chris to Paris, Barry to Canada and Rebecca to Ohio. With only Brad and her many regrets for company, she would embark on what would likely amount to be a fruitless investigation and then join the others for a short space of time before they were forced to move on.

Picking up a dishcloth from the work surface, she wiped clean the days that had already passed and wrote the word 'September' at the top of the chart. From the first until the twenty-second, she filled in every number, drawing a far larger circle around September twenty-second than was around August twenty-forth.

That was the day she looked to; the day when she would fly out with Brad and their new life would start.

A long stretch of empty squares marked the days until then. There were far too many, and nothing significant to note on any of them.

'You have to apologise,' she told herself. 'You need to accept the apology he offered, you need to make things right.'

Twenty-nine days was an unreasonable stretch of time to leave bad blood between them. He meant too much to her to lose, too much for either of them to throw aside their friendship for a wounded little thing called pride.

'Tomorrow,' she resolved. 'I'll find him tomorrow…and we'll set things straight.'

* * *

**_August 24, 1998. 11:17am._**

The office was unusually empty as Barry packed the last of his important effects into a large duffel bag. There was ammo remaining beneath his desk, a spare gun and minor personal items that would also be left behind. He liked to think that he may be back one day, despite having turned in his badge that very morning. Jill would pack what was left and ship it out several days after her own belongings. Travel light, that was the plan. Most of what they had packed would likely remain in storage, so there was little sense in being sentimental.

"You heard this?" Jill asked, startling him with her sudden entrance. She held a broadsheet before her eyes, almost obscuring the entire upper portion of her body from view. "'Despite R.P.D. insistence that the case of the Cannibal Murders has been put to rest, three further incidents have been reported in the last seventy-two hours. Nineteen-year old Jason McDougal was reported missing by friends after crossing police lines at the Arklay border, student Portia Mulligan's mutilated remains were discovered just two hours after she was reported missing following a lone trip to the aforementioned area, and the derelict vehicle of construction worker Jason McDougal was found in the early hours of this morning on a quiet Arklay road. Suspicion is cast once again on the R.P.D., who are still reeling from the tragedy to strike the department's S.T.A.R.S. unit in the Arklay area just one month ago. With the public demanding answers, could they be found in the events of that night? Police Chief Brian Irons was unavailable for comment'."

She scoffed as she folded the newspaper and cast it aside.

"We work in the same damn building and we're hearing this stuff from the press?" she spat. "I can't even feel pleased that they are finally giving us a little credit. If Irons had taken us seriously, maybe these people wouldn't have died."

Barry hung his head. She spoke the truth, and it was sad to know that Irons would stick to his guns and sit on his fat ass. How many more people had to die before he took action?

He worried about Jill, about leaving her behind as they all left. If something was stirring, he sure as hell did not want her around when the wick burned out. Hell, Umbrella could move in on them all right now, silence them before the public decided to listen.

"It's not too late," he reminded her. "You can still come with us, you and Brad both. It would give us all peace of mind."

"We'll be fine," she assured him with a wave of the hand. "Another month and we'll all be in Europe. Who knows, by then we could have all the evidence we need?"

Barry did not believe this to be true. He did not believe that they would ever succeed in bringing the corporation to justice, but they owed it to their friends, to themselves and to the rest of the world to at least try. Until then they would be forced to run and hide, always afraid of what their enemy may do. That was no way to live the rest of their lives, not when something could be done.

"Have you spoken to Chris today?" Jill asked. Her fingers picked at a piece of splintered wood at the corner of Chris's desk, the chair she had lowered herself into groaning precariously beneath her weight.

"Earlier," he admitted. "You two fighting again?"

Chris had been short with all of them lately, and somehow Barry knew that it would be Jill who bore the brunt of his foul temper. He had never worried in the past; Jill had always given as good as she got and was more than enough to handle Redfield. Now, he was not sure that any of them were the same person they had been prior to July twenty-fourth. She had issues of her own now, and it seemed that she had been shouldering Chris's troubles, too.

"You could say that," she laughed. A wistful, faraway expression fell to her eyes and she pushed back in the chair, turning her attention fully towards her comrade. "How are Kathy and the girls? This move can't be easy for them."

"It's not," he revealed grimly. Raccoon had been their home for many years, and he had never envisioned leaving the city let alone the country. The girls had protested greatly against the move, and Kathy had been unhappy but inevitably accepted that it was the safest option.

The chance that Umbrella would find them still remained, but Barry remained hopeful that all would go to plan. Even if it did, it would not stop him from missing them terribly.

"At least you have a family to go back to," Jill sighed. "You're doing the right thing."

Barry knew Dick Valentine well, but was less well acquainted with the other members of Jill's family. From what he had gathered through stinted conversation was that her relationship with them was less than amicable. They had all loved her mother, and her decision to marry Dick had not sat well with many of them; that her deviant behaviour during teenaged years set her up to follow in his footsteps brought a great deal of disappointment that she had not yet succeeded in shaking off. Though offers of reconciliation had been extended her way, she found it difficult to forgive the family that so readily dismissed the father she loved so dearly.

"Do you need any help with packing?" he asked her.

"No," she laughed. "You know me; I'm a last-minute kind of girl. It will help take my mind off things later if I leave it."

She pushed away from the desk and rose hastily as keys jangled from clasped fingertips.

"I should probably head off," she stated. "We're taking the day off before things get heavy. Besides, I need to talk to Chris before he leaves. Do you know what time his flight is?"

He knew that she could sense uneasiness before he spoke his reply. Shock settled into his thoughts as he ran her words through his mind over and over again, until he was sure he had not misunderstood her. Surely she had to be joking?

"He didn't tell you?" he clarified. Jill shook her head slowly, the corners of her lips twitching from a sadness he could not define. "Jill, Chris flew out hours ago. I thought you knew?"

The colour drained from her skin, a smile parting her lips.

"No," she insisted, lips twisting now into a moderate snarl. "No, he can't be gone, he would have-"

She choked on her words, a pale hand rising to cover her expression.

"Why didn't he tell me?" she wanted to know.

_"Quite a sorry send off," Barry chuckled, gazing around the empty terminal._

_"Rebecca was packing," Chris explained. "I told her not to bother, Brad too. Don't give me that look; I spoke to them both before I left."_

_Barry smiled through his beard; Chris was never good at goodbyes, and there had never been one as significant as this, not since S.T.A.R.S. had begun._

_"What about Jill?" he asked._

_Chris scowled, averted his eyes. His jaw set as he considered a reply, expression hardening considerably. Barry knew that a fight was likely, and cursed them both at their stupidity. Were they unaware of just how serious a move this was? The last thing they needed was bitterness, especially between the partnership that would likely be the cornerstone of their future work._

_"We spoke," he answered cryptically. "Something tells me nobody cares that I'm leaving."_

_He ended with a laugh and Barry shook his head disbelievingly. Only Chris could joke in such a solemn moment._

_"Just take care of yourself," he chuckled._

A number of rather unfortunate names rose within Barry's throat and though he longed to apply each and every one of them to Chris, he thought that it was best if he reacted calmly.

"I'm sorry," he apologised, for all the good it would do. "I thought you knew. If I had known- Believe me, I owe him a few harsh words for this."

Jill moved her hand, eyes bloodshot but dry. Whatever had passed between them before Chris had left had obviously not been resolved. Had he known, he would have marched up to Chris's front door and demanded that he set things right before he took off.

"I think I owe him something more," she spat; an attempt at a joke that fell unfortunately flat.

"Hey," he hushed as he moved towards her, ready to at least attempt to repair the damage his idiotic colleague had inflicted. "I'm sure it was a misunderstanding. It didn't mean anything."

"You're right about that," she spoke quietly.

With an assurance that she would be alright that barely touched upon half-hearted, she fled the confines of the office, Chris's actions hanging painfully in the humid air.

* * *

How warm was Paris in August? It was perhaps the most important question that she had failed to research in the days leading up to her departure. She did not know what to pack in her suitcase and what to leave with her parents. An assortment of cardigans and summer dresses had been thrust into the over packed luggage and in the end she decided to leave it as it was.

Her own apartment had been gutted days ago, and now the few possessions that had yet to be shipped ahead remained in Jill's smaller apartment, ready to be shipped to Paris once they were settled.

"I can't even speak a word of French," she groaned as she flopped down onto the sofa. The phrasebook she had found in a discount book store in town had proved to be completely useless; the simple fact was that she butchered the language.

Amongst Jill's many talents appeared to be a passable ability to speak conversational French; why was it that she would be left in America? She was essentially a walking phrasebook. Barry spoke a little German and Chris liked to think he could speak a little Italian, but French eluded them all.

The front door opened behind her but she did not think to turn to greet her temporary roommate.

"Do you think you have time to write down some useful phrases before I go?" she asked. "I almost flunked high school French."

There was no reply, not even movement.

"Jill?"

As she turned to her friend, the familiar uniformed body turned from her and rushed towards the master bedroom without so much as a "hello".

The first thought to cross Rebecca's mind was that of the one member of their team that had already departed. She had warned Chris not to do anything stupid, and it very much appeared that he had. She could think of no other reason why she would be so upset that she would shun company.

"Jill," she called tentatively as she walked slowly across the plush carpet. No sound came from the bedroom, though the door remained open just a little. The midday sun illuminated both rooms, though it seemed darker beyond the door.

She pushed against polished wood, moving forward more quickly this time when she saw her friend perched on the edge of her bed, tears falling freely down her cheeks. She had never before seen Jill cry, and though she tried desperately to cover her eyes, there was no hiding the truth of her state of mind.

"What happened?" she asked in as soothing a voice as she could muster. It was always she who would be comforted; she had no experience in being on the other side of such an exchange.

"He left," Jill choked, not quite believing the words that she spoke. "He left and he didn't even say goodbye."

Her words hit Rebecca hard as she considered them. She had spoken to Chris last night; he had assured her that he would talk to Jill!

She did not know what to do other than offer her arms. Jill remained stubbornly still, refusing comfort in lieu of hurt cleverly disguised as rage.

"I told him to go," she whispered quietly. Rebecca raised her head, devoted all of her attention to her friend's words. "We had a fight, and he tried to apologise last night but…I told him to leave."

Several phrases, each a cluster of words on either side of 'stupid' came to mind, but she thought to keep them to herself; something told her that Jill already knew.

"I didn't think he would," she laughed, choking on the sound a second later.

"I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it," Rebecca tried to offer. "You always fight and make up, this is probably just another-"

"No it's not," Jill stubbornly interjected. "I don't even know if we're friends anymore, I don't- I don't know what we are."

Rebecca swallowed her empathetic pain solemnly. The tables sure had turned in the weeks since that night; if someone had told her then that she would be comforting a distraught Jill Valentine, she would have laughed in their face. There was nothing amusing about this, nothing that could be described as pleasant in any way.

Something niggled at her consciousness, something tucked away in the back of her mind. A vision loomed just out of view, teasing her with the obvious nature of its composition.

_"Are you going to tell me how you did this?" she asked with a raised eyebrow. Chris grimaced, and not entirely from the pressure she applied to his bruised knuckles._

_"Do you expect me to?"_

_She smiled. Of course she didn't, and she didn't particularly care. What she cared about was the possibility of a broken bone this close to departure; he would be unable to fly out if he had been careless enough to inflict such a severe injury upon himself._

_Blunt trauma, she surmised; possibly from collision with a stationary, inanimate object._

_"Well you're lucky," she warned. "If it was broken you wouldn't be able to move your fingers. I'll bandage it up anyway; it should help with the pain."_

_"Thank you," he grunted as she pressed clean gauze against the broken skin._

_He was a man of few words tonight, and far be it from her to push unneeded conversation, curiosity got the better of her and she forced a question into the open._

_"This wouldn't happen to have anything to do with the sudden funk you've fallen into, would it?" she wanted to know. Chris did not raise his eyes sarcastically to hers as she had expected, but instead dropped his gaze to the desk and found solace in silence._

_"Forget I asked," she muttered._

_Her words appeared to have struck him down, and though she felt the need to apologise for her probing, she could not bring herself to break the silence. Prior to this moment, she would have assumed it impossible for him to fall into such a low mood without at least the company of anger._

_She would have preferred it this way; at least with anger he seemed alive._

"Jill, did-" Rebecca cut herself short. How to phrase this appropriately? It was a loaded question, and no matter what the answer, it would likely provoke a response that would only drive her deeper into sadness. "Did you and Chris- That night you went missing…it was Chris, wasn't it? You slept with Chris?"

The sudden influx of tears confirmed her suspicion. It seemed that the dam had been broken and nothing was going to stop her now. The tissue that Rebecca offered was barely enough to stem the flow.

Jill folded to her this time, left with no option but to accept what was offered and hope that it would be enough to see her through the night.

"H-how did you know?" she stammered.

A hunch. An unacceptable answer but the truth nonetheless.

"He hurt his hand the other day," she explained. "He wouldn't say how, but I noticed the front of his locker was caved in. He wasn't all there, and I've never seen him that way…except when it concerns you. Whatever happened, he was really upset about it, Jill."

To her surprise, this information did not seem to cheer her up.

"It's all my fault," Jill muttered. "It's all- I kissed him, _I _initiated it. Ever since then things between us have been…different. He was my best friend, Rebecca, and I ruined all that for the sake of one lousy night."

Rebecca moved her hand along her back, soothing her tremors enough that her words made sense.

"Well, it wasn't so lousy," Jill laughed with a smile that was a little more genuine this time. "He…wasn't quite what I imagined, you know? It was like he cared, like- For a little while he even had me fooled…"

Though her words hinted at bitterness, Rebecca could see in her eyes that she could not bring herself to regret what had happened, to claim it as a mistake and move on. Perhaps that was where the problem lay.

"Are you in love with him?" The question fell from her lips before her mind recognised what a stupid idea it was.

"Isn't it obvious?" came a reply in the form of a whisper.

Rebecca's heart sank with her words. She did not know much of love, but her young heart believed – or rather hoped – that it came without complications, and that if two people were in love they would be together. Chris's love for his partner had been so obvious he may as well have shouted it from the rooftops; if Jill loved him back, then what was the problem?

It was here that Rebecca's capacity to help reached its inevitable limit.

"Sometimes I don't want to," Jill added as a bitter afterthought. "And now…I really don't want to love him, but it's too damn late. We've both been at fault lately but he hurt me and that should have been it; I swore I'd never again be with a man who could hurt me so easily. But…it's Chris."

Dismay aside, Rebecca felt the frustration that had apparently been gripping Jill in recent days. Had it been any other man, she would have feared losing her friend to an abusive relationship, but she knew Chris; he would never intentionally hurt anyone who did not thoroughly deserve it. He may come across as a brute sometimes, but he was caring at heart.

"I'm scared-" Jill continued, and Rebecca was happy to let her do so. "I'm scared that he has lost respect for me. I'm scared that things will never be the way they were."

"That's not true," she hushed. "He cares for you; anyone with a little sense in their head can see that. Have faith, and it will all work out. I'm sure of it."

Jill scoffed as she dabbed tears from the corners of her eyes.

"So what are you going to do?" Rebecca probed. "Don't tell me that this is it, because there is something there to be salvaged. If it's Umbrella that's getting in the way, they won't be around forever."

Jill smiled sadly.

"I'm going to wait for him," she breathed. "It's all I can do."

Rebecca waited until she had fallen asleep, though Jill had not asked it of her. She did not know the reasons for staying, only that it felt right. She was reluctant now to leave, knowing that Barry would be knocking on her door within the next few hours. Though she knew it was perhaps not the best idea to leave Jill in such a state, there was little that she could have done to help. She was strong, she woul dpull through this on her own.

All her goodbyes had been spoken, though her heart had not yet adjusted to the change. Raccoon had offered her so many promises; a new life, a fresh start. S.T.A.R.S. was her big break, her chance to prove that being naturally intelligent was not the limit of her abilities. Instead, she found a life she would not have wished on her most bitter of enemies.

A casual glance was cast back to the now-sleeping form of the woman she had initially felt needlessly intimidated by. It was strange to find that it was she who wore a mask of bravery while the more experienced of the two stole several hours of freedom behind tear-stained eyelids. Rebecca did not feel that she had come full circle - not just yet - but she felt a certain sense of closure as she considered her short yet meaningful time in Raccoon.

She may not have been given the life she had promised, but she had found friends that made the loss seem inconsequential.

As she allowed the bedroom door to close slowly behind her, she felt a sudden belief in destiny, fate and all that she had previously labelled as 'unscientific'. This was where she was supposed to be; she knew that because she would not trade it for all the comfort in the world.

* * *

**_August 24, 1998. 11:53pm (CET)._**

"_Bienvenue à l'aéroport international Charles de Gaulle . S'il vous plait préparer votre passeport pour inspection. Si vous n'avez rien à déclarer, prières de vous mettre en file d'attente à la gauche__._"

Chris looked up from his passport, selecting a few familiar words from the announcement but understanding none.

"_Welcome to Charles de Gaulle International Airport. Please prepare your passport for inspection. If you have nothing to declare, please queue to the left._"

'If only it was that easy wherever you go,' he thought with amused trepidation.

"_Bienvenido a Aeropuerto internacional de Charles de Gaulle._"

With no intention to subject himself to a crash course in multi-lingual welcome speeches, he hauled his bag further onto his shoulder and set off towards the pre-designated customs line. Passage through the checkpoint was swift and painless; nothing to declare, no visa to be checked and no questions to answer.

The sun had already set, the hour far later than it would have been in the city he had left behind. The day had likely concluded, Barry and Rebecca departed...

'What of Jill?'

On every occasion that his thoughts drifted to her - which happened quite frequently - he was overcome with the unpleasant sensation of intense nausea; fear so profound that one was willing to end it by any means necessary. At least, that was the closest approximation he could draw. He knew that it was far more likely the result of guilt stemming from cowardice.

Because he was a coward.

His initial reasoning for witholding the time of his departure from her had been an immediate reaction to her request; if she wanted him to leave, then he would and she would have no right to complain after speaking such words. Then, the reason began to slip away and he knew that he was simply using it as an excuse.

Running away from the mess he had caused was far simpler than facing his mistake. If experience taught him anything it was that he would only screw up further, and there would truly be no hope for them.

Then he realised that he could not find the words to say goodbye, not to her. With the animosity that burned between them, his mind would fool his heart into believing that it was a final farewell, and he was sure that it would shatter in the wake of such an event. There was still something between them, something that would pull him back to her if he lost his way. Already he felt the desire to be with her and to put right what had went wrong. It followed the urge to flee, and to seperate himself from those he knew and loved so that they were no longer pawns in this battle.

It was his guilt that pulled him back, told him that he could not move on until he met with Jill and with the others and made sure that there was nothing to regret.

But at what cost had this been?

He knew that she had not been serious, that she had merely been naturally defensive after his emotional attack. But it was easier to believe her, easier to think that she wanted him to leave.

Stubbornly, he pushed aside thoughts of what he had left behind. He could not bear the wounds they inflicted when the most dangerous fight of their lives lay ahead. They would be with him soon, and there was not a damn thing he could do until then.

He was alone, as he had wished for; his plan set in motion, five minds set on vengeance. Umbrella's demise awaited, and by the fury of hellfire...they were coming.

**AN - Please review :)**


	11. Juggernauts

**Strength Through Wounding**

**AN - **Well, we're nearing the end, only one more chapter to go. This was the original final epilogue (though a lot has been modified since the order changed). I initially intended it to be like the epilogue slides of RE3; just snippets of what happens during/after Raccoon. I never intended to write what happens in Raccoon, because the story was meant to be an exploration of the characters in the wake of the mansion incident. Whether or not I succeeded in that is yours to decide, but it was the intention, and adding another major conflict felt to me like it defeated the point in that. Anyway, this chapter is essentially snippets of 'what happened next', which bridges this chapter with the next. The snippets aren't in chronological order. I wrote them in the order I had planned, and for some reason it reads better this way than it did in chronological order (Jill's segment was always intended to come first).  
There is also a little setting up for the sequel (character-wise) here, which is why it ended up so long, because that section was intended to start half way through what I ended up writing lol. I will reveal more about the sequel in the next (last) chapter or to whoever can't wait until then and wants to know.  
I'll stop rambling now ^_^. Chapter title is from a song by Enter Shikari.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed. I'm running out of ways to express my appreciation ^_^. You all know who you are, but you're getting a shout-out anyway: **Rock Lees Lotus** (also thank you for correcting my embarrassing French), **Ultimolu, .-SnipingWolf, Sparkle Valentine, ditto9, KT324, tek, Kenshin13, cjjs, xSummonerYunax **and** wolfdemon22.** After checking my stats, I realise that the first person to review this chapter will be my one hundredth reviewer! So thank you from the bottom of my speechless heart in advance. It still boggles my mind to consider the response I've gotten.

_**Chapter Ten** - Juggernauts_

_'We'll do what we've always done; shut our eyes and hope for the best.  
No, we're gonna face this and step out on to the tracks, stare it right in the face.'_

**_September 27, 1998. 11:50pm_**

Silence.

It was a strange sound within the walls of a city so vast and densely populated.

Gunshots.

Jill rose suddenly, head rising from damp sheets though her body remained uselessly still. A scream brought an abrupt end to her misplaced hope; what was alive evidently did not remain so for long, not here, not anymore.

She used to let music run in the background, for no reason other than to drown out the howls. Then the power had failed. Regardless, there were a lot of songs that would never sound the same to her.

It had all began days ago, though she was unsure of the exact number. It could have been weeks, she would have been unable to tell. She did not believe the reports at first, as the citizens of Raccoon had not believed hers. It was easier and far more comforting not to. Then, she saw it with her own eyes. A magazine tucked beneath her arm, a bottle of juice in one hand and complete shock at the disruption that fell over the local store when a heavily wounded, middle-aged man stumbled into the store. There was so much blood she had not quite known what to do. The hour was late, and though there were but a few customers inside the store it was enough to provoke panic. Others had rushed to his aid, and she had fallen to offer what she could. He bled out before she could ask his name.

Fifteen minutes, many frantic phone calls and several accusations of insanity later and the man was on his feet, sinking whitened teeth into the jugular of the cashier. What ensued was quite literally a bloodbath. The cashier fell backwards over nearby shelves, a perfect arc of blood spattering all who were in close proximity, and a woman less than a foot behind the risen man brought down a large jar of Marmite upon his skull. The man turned, new prey in his sights. She had fired. The blood had not yet settled in the regular post-mortem fashion and droplets of crimson erupted from the point of impact, just below his cheek bone. Another shot took out his eye, tissue and blood travelling further than they previously had as the bullet continued to his brain. For the sake of peace of mind, she pulled a metal spade from a discount bucket by the register and swung it as hard as she could into the base of the stunned man's skull. Rebecca had warned her that not all headshots would destroy the areas of the brain necessary for movement; the T-virus worked on the basis of powering the most basic functions, and once those areas had been destroyed the body would die a more permanent death.

The customers had all turned to her in that moment, wanting advice and the knowledge that they would be safe. Jill found it strange that they should turn to a woman they had previously ridiculed, a woman now stained in the blood of a man who begged for a death that would prevent the inevitable, and that of a man they were too late to save. But she had agreed, and had taught them all that she knew. Once they were gone, she had returned to her apartment with the realisation that she had saved the lives of those few customers, and that she could do so much more if she just stayed.

The downfall accelerated at that point. By the time dawn broke the following day, hysteria was widespread. Twenty-four hours later, most of the city had been infected. Twenty-four hours later still, the US Army had taken control of the situation...or at least wanted it to appear that they had. A quarantine was in effect, with daily evacuations from hotspots throughout the city. As time passed, several evacuation zones became overrun and eventually announcements were made regarding the few safe locations, urging citizens to make their way to the city limits if at all possible.

The days had merged together as she shunned safety in lieu of helping those she could. She had pulled many survivors from their homes; individuals too afraid to leave their safety of the house and make for the evacuation zones. A nearby elementary school had provided the safest environment to house these terrified citizens as she continued her search, intending to gather as many survivors and weapons as possible before leading them to the city limits. Safety in numbers was what she had assumed.

Some of the survivors helped her search for supplies, from food to simple toiletries and toys for the children. Others worked on barricading the school, and those who knew how to handle a firearm shared their knowledge with those who did not.

She loaned assistance also to the clueless officers of the R.P.D., fighting their hopeless fight until Marvin told her that they were pulling out, told her to get out while she could or to join them at the precinct.

In retrospect, she knew that she should have taken his advice. Finding no further survivors, she returned to the school, bloody and exhausted but ready to leave this God forsaken town.

_Something seemed misplaced, even from a distance. She could not quite put her finger on it, but it was there and it niggled at her until her blistered feet carried her towards the barricaded entrance._

_Barricaded..._

_The heavy, old-fashioned door hung open, planks that had once been nailed across the bulk on the inside ripped from their position. There was a door to the side that remained guarded, allowing for her return and a lack of opportunity for the mindless undead to stumble across their position. There was no use for the main entrance, no reason why the barricade would have been removed._

_She stepped on something soft that squelched beneath her boot. She knew from experience not to look down. The stench hit her before the visual cue arrived. Blood, pooled down the hallway, smeared in all directions. Torn clothing and mutilated flesh provided an occasional break in pattern, but the general scene was one of devastation._

_Shock was all that kept her from tears, all that kept her from choking on the bile that rose to her throat._

_A solitary groan echoed down the vast hallway, a shuffle drawing a shadow to the light. She raised her weapon, preparing for the inevitable._

They were dead, every single one of them, every life she had saved. Even the children had not been spared.

She did not know what had happened, surmising only that someone had tried to escape or had responded to a familiar face amongst the dead. There were signs of a struggle at the door, an elderly man dead from wounds other than ripped flesh; the others had attempted - and failed - to keep the doors closed, but it was just too late.

When she returned to her apartment, she had fallen into a shower, thankful that the building's emergency generators provided enough electricity to power her appliances. The blood of those she had once saved and later gunned down after their deaths fell from her skin, but the memories lingered. When the water finally run clear, she cried, passed out on her bed, all sense of hope and reason gone. She had lost contact with Brad in the chaos; who knew if he was still alive? The survivors she had sworn to protect were dead, the police likely meeting a similar fate. She was on her own, alone...and somewhere along the way, she had lost the will to try. For all her experience, there was nothing she could do. It was pure chaos, and the city she had once called home could never be put right.

Though her body was unwilling, she hauled it into an upright position, clutching the dry towel around her chest. Her hair had dried; hours had obviously passed. Numerous bruises were visible against pale skin, new wounds adding to old that were not quite healed at that time. She wondered if her body would ever be whole again.

Dried tears crusted at the corner of her eyes and she made to wipe them away, regret weighing heavily on her mind. She had missed her opportunity to flee, had thrown aside safety to help others, for all the good it had achieved. Aside from the missing pilot, she had not spoken to Chris since he had left. There was no way of knowing if he had made it to Paris, if he was safe and not in the hands of the enemy. The increasing unlikelihood that she would make it to the city limits alive was disheartening; she could not protect the survivors, how could she possibly protect herself?

Though she had cried for them previously, tears fell as she considered their fate. Would they have survived if she had not found them? Would their deaths have been more humane?

_A quick wave of her hand signalled to the blonde, and she rushed to her side, daughter held tightly to her as she ran._

_"Where are we going?" the girl asked, voice barely audible above her fear._

_"Somewhere safe," her mother assured her, smoothing back flyaway hair. "Then we're going to see grandpa, we'll stay with him for a while."_

_The hope in her quaking voice brought a smile to Jill's lips, and she was once again assured of the reason she had stayed behind. The girl was barely seven years old, her mother young in her own right. The father was absent, and all talk of his whereabouts ended in solemn silence; he was likely a victim, as so many others were._

_"You are very brave," Jill told the young girl with a smile. "We're almost there, not far to go now."_

_She checked around the corner, relieved when the coast was revealed to be clear._

_"I'm scared," the girl gasped, grabbing her arm suddenly as she made to move. Jill blinked down at her, heart aching for the poor child. When she was the same age as the girl, she had been preoccupied with dolls and experimenting with make up, not feeling the undead and fighting for survival. Even if she survived, her childhood would effectively be over. There was no recovering from something like this, Jill knew that well._

_"So am I," she admitted, knowing that the truth was all that could put her mind at ease._

She had not found the bodies of the girl and her mother, but knew better than to hope they had escaped. It was far more likely that they had become infected and had joined the others that roamed the streets of Raccoon.

A light blinked in the corner of her eye, drawing her attention to the phone cradle at her bedside. She had spent very little time in her apartment over the last week, and though it had been a while since the phone lines had disconnected, she could not remember receiving any calls prior to this time.

"You have two new messages," the automated voice told her. She had little tolerance for what others would have to say, but chose to listen. Anything that would pull her thoughts from reality, even if only for a brief moment.

"Hey, it's Barry," sounded the familiar voice. "Just to let you know we're all settled and I'm ready to head out in the next few days. The girls send their love; it's perfect for them here, they're having so much fun. Take care of yourself, and I'll see you soon. Looking forward to it."

Warmth grew within the pit of her stomach, hope flourishing for a moment before flickering and faltering. A short reminder of the world that existed outside of Raccoon; a world she had doubted to exist.

The machine skipped to the next message, giving a time stamp of September twenty-second; the day she was to leave.

"Jill..."

Suddenly, she could not breathe. Every instinct screamed at her to reach for the 'delete' key, but she remained as she was, the familiar tone of Chris's voice pulling her that little bit farther into the light of hope.

"God, I don't even know what to say. I don't even know if you'll get this message; you've probably already left. I hope not..."

There was a long pause, and a strained breath that willed thoughts into existence.

"I'm sorry," he insisted, voice brimming with emotion that caused her shoulders to hunch. "I've been so stupid. I should never have left the way I did, it was selfish and-"

She could tell that he was having difficulty forming the words to vocalise what he wished to say. In that moment, she did not care what he had done, or the intention behind his hurtful actions; she was scared and she wanted him at her side, assuring her that it would all be alright. Because now, she felt as though her life was in its final hours.

"I told myself that I left because you told me to, but that's not true," he admitted. "Saying goodbye to the others...it hurt, Jill, more than I thought it would. But saying goodbye to you... It was cowardly of me to run, but I didn't know what else to do. No, dammit, I'm making excuses again. You didn't deserve that, and you don't deserve this. So here it is; me being honest. You are...the most important person in my life Jill, family aside. I said it before and I'll say it again; I don't regret what happened between us. Despite everything that followed, I wouldn't trade that night for anything. You can take what you want from that, but it's the truth."

She savoured his words, the faint whisper that told her to ignore them overpowered by the wish to be comforted. He spoke all that she wished to hear, and though she knew she was clinging to hope that was too dangerous to live up to its promise, it was all that kept her from pressing her weapon to her temple and pulling the trigger; a pre-emptive strike to the seemingly inevitable. Rather dead on her own terms than at the hands of a virus that would turn her into one of the very creatures she hunted.

"The past few weeks have given me time to sort my head out," he continued. Would the machine cut him off prematurely? She hoped not. "I promise that things will be different when you get here. I...I can't wait to see you. Paris is- it's nice. You'd love it here. I haven't had much time to explore; hopefully we can find time to explore it together. You can tell me what everything means, I'm no good at this French thing."

There was a pause for breath as he chuckled quietly at the thought.

"Please be careful," he urged. "I...I don't know what I would do if I lost you."

The machine reverted to the selection menu and she slammed her palm against it, disconnecting the mechanical voice.

Hope now flourished in what had once been a cavern of confusion; her heart beat with a reason, with a purpose. There were people out there who cared for her, others that waited for her in worry. What the hell was she doing, lying around feeling sorry for herself? Where was the girl who had fought her way through a mansion designed to be her tomb? Where was the girl who survived training with the Delta Force, who proved herself amongst men of far greater strength?

The towel dropped to the floor as she rose, Chris's words following her to the closet. They offered her hope in an entirely different form; a promise of resolution that would not be painful in the least. It was more than she could have asked for, given their history, but it was there and she would cling to it.

'None of that matters if you don't make it out of here,' she reminded herself.

A single outfit remained in the confines of her closet, the vast majority of her clothes shipped ahead to Paris and the rest lying in bloody tatters at her feet. It was an outfit she intended to leave behind; a gift from Patricia when her wardrobe had been deemed 'unsexy'. Jill had protested furiously; she knew how to be sexy, she simply believed that 'sexy' was not 'almost naked'.

Be that as it may, she was faced with the choice of squeezing into a clean tube top and miniskirt combo or recycling the more intact of her worn outfits, which bore an unsightly rip up the thigh and splatterings of blood and other substances she dared not attempt to recognise. There was the likelihood that brain matter existed somewhere on these items of clothing and Rebecca had surmised from previous observation that the undead were drawn to the scent of brain matter in a manner similar to snakes; she could not take the risk.

A pair of old brown biker boots Chris's younger sister had bought her the previous year were pulled onto her feet, a small knife sliding easily down the side in case of 'close encounters'. Collecting what little ammunition remained, she loaded her weapon, tying her white cardigan around her waist as she dropped a spare clip into each deep pocket, her lock picking kit pushed into her waistband. As an added afterthought, she checked a case she had carefully concealed within her living room. A single metal object remained within, and she frowned at the sorry sight. Would one be enough? She had not the time nor material to construct more.

The front of her apartment block looked out onto a main street; it was far too dangerous. A carefully-placed hole on the east side of the building would lead her out into the street at a reasonable running distance to a much safer area. Hopefully she would take out a few of the creatures in the blast.

Her mind calmed for a moment in the rush, and she looked over her apartment. So many memories, all to be thrown away. But what choice did she have? Even if all it boiled down to was which way she would prefer to die, the decision was easy to make; she would rather fight until her last breath than die alone in cowardice. If she was to die, she wanted to be sure as hell that she took as many of those poor bastards with her. The less undead that wandered the street, the more chances any remaining survivors stood. If her death earned them as little as one more breath, she would die happy.

Too much time had been spent running and hiding. This was her last escape, her last flight. After this...she would fight, fight to the bitter end.

* * *

**_September 25, 1998. 1:00pm (CET)._**

Nothing. Not even a dial tone.

"Come on," Chris urged, bashing a familiar number into the keypad once again.

"_There is still no official word on the cause of the disaster, only that the United States armed forces have stepped in to take control of the situation. Though official figures are unavailable at this time, the death toll is likely to be in the thousands, with more casualties expected in the coming days."_

Barry unplugged the television, to the relief of both men. Though Chris had initially been thankful for the discovery of an English news channel, he had begun to dislike the stories that he heard.

Disbelief was the first reaction they had provoked. Raccoon City had been hit by an epidemic, causing usually law-abiding citizens to attack one another. More reports flooded in; the dead were rising, and soon outnumbered the living. Evacuations were proving useless. Thousands had been saved, but many more remained trapped.

He had called Stone-Ville airport, had asked if the tickets he had left for Jill and Brad had been collected. The answer he received was a resounding "no". Cue frantic phone calls, each and every one bringing him no further to learning the truth of her fate.

"You need to relax," Barry told him. "Jill is fine, I'm sure of it. She likely took a different flight, she could be on her way right now."

Chris ignored his words and waited for the usual insistence that the number he had dialled was not available.

"Fuck!" he screamed, flinging the handset with all his might against the wall.

Barry flinched, trying to forget how much they had been forced to pay for it in the first place.

"Nice work," he commended. "Now you'll never know if she calls back."

The glare that was thrown in his direction could have cut through diamond.

"She should be here by now," Chris pointed out. "She should be here, but she's not. Brad, too…they should both _be_ here!"

He sank into the cushions of the couch and buried his head in his hands. Helplessness was not something he was used to dealing with and on the occasions it was forced upon him, he never quite knew how to handle it.

What if she had been caught in the destruction? Fragmented images of nightmares from months past resurfaced and a horrifying picture was painted in his mind's eye. Death was not the worst that she could have suffered.

"I have to go back," he realised aloud.

"The hell are you babbling?"

He ignored the mild insult and made for the back of the room. It was a small apartment; studio. The rent was affordable, landlord asked no questions and the location was somewhat hidden away from the hustle and bustle of Parisian life. It had been enough for him in the weeks he had spent alone, and provided a good base from which to find accommodation more suitable for a larger number.

Hauling a bag from beneath the metal frame of the bed, he began to search for the various weapons he had obtained upon arrival by various means that were not quite legal.

"Chris, you can't seriously be considering this?" Barry growled.

"We can't just leave them there to die!" Chris roared in return.

"I agree, but what in the name of all that is holy do you plan to do when you get there?" Barry's question pulled him back to reality; he did not truly know, had not thought that far ahead.

"Search the city? Street by street if I have to."

"Don't-"

"I have to!" There was no questioning the matter. The thought of what she faced were she still trapped within Raccoon city limits turned his stomach. Brad would likely have fled at the first sign of trouble; she would be fighting alone. There was also the selfish pain when he considered all that had been left unsaid. He did not want her to die with the belief that he did not care. "I have to find her…I have to know that she is alright."

"If you'd let me finish," Barry pressed. "I was about to say don't you go jetting over there with half a brain in your head. I'll go."

This suggestion was enough to cease his hurried packing.

"You would barrel in there without a plan, wound up like you are now and you'd be dead before you covered Downtown," he explained. Chris found it difficult to disagree with anything he had said. "I have a friend in Stone-Ville with a chopper. I can search the city from the skies, radio down and hope she hears. You'd never make it past the barricades in the first place."

Chris allowed the handles of the bag to fall into the fabric and took a step back, considering the offer. While a job was always best done by one's self, he had already settled in Paris and was far more skilled at lying low and avoiding detection than Barry.

"I'm a better pilot," he tried, knowing that his friend would shoot the idea down.

"I'm worried about her, too," Barry spoke with a smile. "It may take me a day or two to get to Raccoon but if she's out there, I'll find her."

'This is his chance to prove that he can be trusted,' a small voice whispered somewhere in his mind. Though he had long since forgiven Barry, the issue of trust was not one that he could resolve so easily. But was it appropriate to test him with Jill's life? There was nothing in the world more important that he could have placed into the care of the former traitor.

"Alright," he relented.

Whether or not trust was on trial, he knew that he was better suited for the work that awaited him in the French capital. They had all agreed that seeing to Umbrella's end was far more important than the life of any one of them.

"Just bring her back, Bear," Chris begged, using his friend's old nickname to inject the gravity of his decision into his words. Barry nodded accordingly, understanding the importance of his task.

"Make sure you're safe when we get back."

* * *

**_September 29, 1998. 8:30pm._**

Echoes of phantom sounds reverberated within his seemingly hollow skull. No, not hollow. There was definitely something in there, something extremely sensitive to pain.

With a deep, exhausted groan he stretched out a hand and reached for the cell phone he always kept by the side of his bed.

"Eight thirty?" he groaned. "Fuck."

Of all the days to be hungover...

With the greatest of effort, he rolled out of an unfamiliar bed, careful to conceal himself with the thin sheet. Why the hell was he naked?

Memories were hazy at best, but he pieced together enough of the previous night to form a picture that he suddenly wished never to see again. A simple 'going away' party had spiralled out of control. Lord knows what he drank, because he did not have a clue. Whatever it was, it seemed to provoke his brain into beating against the inside of his skull in a desperate attempt to escape whatever devastation had been wrought.

The kitchen was almost spotless, saved for a shattered glass he was careful not to tread upon. He laughed, knowing that he had likely attempted – and obviously failed – to pour himself a glass of water before stripping and collapsing into his friend's bed.

A note was pinned to the refrigerator, his eyes barely focusing to read the neat script upon the paper.

_Kennedy,_

_If you can read this then good, you survived the party. I would have warned you, but they made me swear not to. Sorry I couldn't be there, but I hope they gave you an awesome send-off. If it went as planned then it's likely you don't know where the fuck you are. So, I gathered all you need to know because I know how important this job is to you and I really don't want for you to screw this up. It's your big shot, kid!_

_Location: Raccoon City, Michigan, USA…Earth (I know, I know, it doesn't feel like it, right?)  
Purpose: Be a kick-ass cop and put those S.T.A.R.S. cats to shame.  
What you need to know: Your first shift starts at 9pm, September 29, 1998 (that's tonight, dude). You need to report to the R.P.D. precinct (circled on map above this note) at this time, to an Officer Branagh. Your uniform is folded in the third shelf on the right in the closet. Wear it. The squad car you left the keys for is parked opposite the building; you may have seen it when you arrived._

_Take good care of the apartment and she'll take good care of you._

_See you in October!_

_Chuck_

_P.S. There's a little something in the fridge that should help with the hangover._

Reality seeped back into his defeated mind and suddenly he understood. Raccoon City was his new home, the R.P.D. his new place of employment. Chuck had been kind enough to loan him his apartment whilst he was on holiday, until he found his own place. He had no memory of the journey there, which meant that he had likely driven whilst intoxicated.

"Not a good way to start a career in law enforcement," he muttered. "How the hell was I not pulled over?"

It seemed strange that he had freely committed such a stupid crime; he was textbook in his views on laws and what should happen when they were broken. He had never committed a crime in his life, and was deeply ashamed that he had endangered lives with his reckless behaviour.

There was no sound from outside the windows, not even the distant hum of traffic. It was not possible that Chuck could afford such a good location on bartender wages. Perhaps Raccoon was dead on a Tuesday night? Though he knew that he should hope this, were he in his right mind, he could not suppress tremors of excitement. Fresh out of college, thirsting for the opportunity to make a difference; the R.P.D. seemed to be the perfect opportunity to kick start his working life. A new city, a job he knew he would love and everything he wanted lay out before him. Now he did not know why he had been so nervous.

The car was where Chuck had claimed it to be, though the short walk to its location proved disturbing. The streets were deserted, a window across the street shattered, a door left wide open. A homeless man curled into an alcove halfway down the street, his clothes tattered, worn and stained horribly. He did not appear to be moving, and despite the light breeze that blew through the otherwise comfortably warm night, he appeared to have made no attempt to cover himself. Trash cans had been overturned, and he was sure there were spots of blood on the road.

Then there was the smell. Rotting meat, garbage and the general stench of items that were far past their prime. Perhaps there was an abattoir nearby? It was the only explanation that made sense.

'Damn,' he thought to himself. 'I need to find my own place fast.'

He jogged to the vehicle and drove away as soon as he was seated.

The streets that passed were as empty as the one he had left, some appearing respectable and tidy, others in varying states of disarray. One thing was clear; he sure had his work cut out for him as a cop in this city.

The scenery rolled by, little variation in architecture until the outskirts of Downtown were approached. A dimly lit street, the dark grey of concrete buildings, isolation…a body in the street.

Leon slammed on the brakes.

It was unbelievable…_unimaginable_. Whatever was wrong with this city, he had not expected it to extend to bodies being carelessly dumped in the middle of the road.

"What the hell?" he muttered as his feet hit the tarmac. He could now see the woman clearly, sprawled in a pool of blood that was too large to allow life. Her body riddled with strange wounds, many resembling teeth marks…human teeth.

He crouched low by the body, the streetlamps flickering above his head. The light bounced off the surface of the pool at his feet; the blood was recently shed, the shallow edges of the stain only just beginning to crust.

Flesh was missing from her arm, chunks ripped clean from the bone. There was no pulse, and no breath. If the blood had not been enough, he confirmed with reluctance that the woman was deceased.

"What could have done this?" he wondered aloud.

There was little doubt that he would be late, but he weighed the consequences of tardiness and walking away from a murder scene and recognised that the former would be far more lenient than the latter. Besides, he could not simply leave her here. This woman had obviously been murdered, her killer likely nearby.

He rose, turning hastily to jog back to the car. But he did not move. Several figures lurched in the distance, their steps unsteady, feet dragging painfully against the ground.

A bloody hand slammed against the side of his car and he jumped, raising his firearm as an arm flexed, pulling a body up and around the side, into plain view.

"R.P.D., stop right there!" he ordered. Blood dripped heavily from the mouth of a young man, perhaps not much older than he. Pale skin, black hair, white eyes. It appeared that he had found the perpetrator.

He pulled himself forward, edging slowly towards where Leon stood.

"I am warning you sir," he calmly insisted. "One more step and I _will_ open fire."

The man ignored his warning, an arm now outstretched, fingers clutching at thin air. A low, guttural growl escaped his throat; the desperate sound of starvation.

Leon lowered his weapon, aimed for the calf…and fired.

The man barely flinched.

"What the fuck?"

He fired again, this time into the thigh, and again when he continued towards him. The stomach, chest, shoulder, neck, forehead. It was only with this final shot that the young man fell, presumably dead.

"He didn't even feel it," Leon gasped beneath his breath, stumbling backwards.

Suddenly, hands were at his ankles, the woman whose pulse he had failed to find only moments before biting into the tough leather of his boots. Her grasp was surprisingly strong for a dead woman, and this time he did not hesitate to fire the last round in his clip into her skull. She fell back to her original position, blood, hair and lumps of pink he dared not think to describe now staining the leg of his uniform.

The other figures were at the level of his vehicle now, and every single one of them had their hungry, soulless eyes on him.

'What the hell are they? This…this can't be real, this can't be happening.'

Embracing the natural reflex, he ran, reaching for a nearby door. Perhaps inside was safer?

No luck, it was locked. As were the next three. More figures appeared, more decaying corpses – because it was the only word he could think of to describe them – lumbering towards him.

"Get away from me!"

He heard the voice before she tumbled through a door several feet away, falling to her knees with a painful shriek.

Leon put down the man that followed her, and she was already on her feet when he turned. She threw her hands in the air, fearful eyes widening in shock.

"What are you doing?" she demanded as he raised the gun to eye level. "Don't-"

The creature behind her fell before she knew it was even there. There was a strange sense of trust and understanding in her eyes when she thanked him; the recognition that he represented hope and clarity in a world that obviously astounded them both.

It was a single moment that he stole to appreciate the first sense of normality that he had found within Raccoon. Normality in the form of a young girl with the bluest eyes he had ever seen, brunette hair so vibrant it was almost red and an attitude he could feel before she chose to utilise it.

It was a single moment in which his concentration lapsed, and a single moment later his body collided with the hard tarmac, a heavy weight atop him. The creature snarled, exposing an incomplete set of teeth, and a stench so overpowering befell him that he could feel the muscles of his arms weaken. It was a fight he could not win under those conditions.

In a split-second, the creature was dead. The sharp, pointed tip of a combat knife protruded from a mouth that now dripped crimson. The knife retracted, the body was pulled backwards and small yet strong hands pulled him back to his feet.

"Are you alright?" asked the girl, eyeing the approaching crowd. He could only nod, hoping that she meant physically because he sure as hell did not know what had happened to his mind. The sensible, responsible police officer within wrestled with an immature teenager that had seen one too many horror films.

"We have to get out of here," he told her, knowing that he stated the obvious. "Follow me."

The city had obviously gone to hell; there was bound to be a working vehicle just waiting to be robbed.

They found it three blocks away, inconvenient aches setting in to all four legs long before they dove into the appropriately-situated squad car. Keys remained in the ignition, windows were all intact…he wasted not one second before speeding off, not quite knowing where he was heading.

"What the fuck is going on here?" the girl screamed, surprising him to hear such language from one as young as she.

'She's probably not much younger than you, idiot,' he acknowledged.

"I have no idea," he answered honestly. "I haven't been here long; the place was like this when I woke up."

The interior of the car was unfamiliar to him; it was an older model, one he had not had the opportunity to drive during training. Try as he did, he could not get the damn radio to work.

"Shit," he swore, regretting it a moment later. He made a point not to swear in front of women, especially those younger than he. It was not that he was brought up to do so, more that he saw it as a sign of respect and strove to extend to it those who had yet to prove that they did not deserve it.

"So you're a cop, huh?" the girl asked, observing his soiled uniform.

"Yeah," he spoke with an ironically amused lilt to his tone. "First day on the job, great huh? Name's Leon Kennedy, nice to meet you."

She stared sideways at him in a manner that was not uncomfortable but made him incredibly aware of her attention.

"Claire Redfield," she offered with a smile that was almost infectious. She offered nothing else; not her age, occupation, where she was from or even what she was doing in Raccoon.

"Thank you for helping me back there," he sighed. "Can't say I was expecting something like that from-"

He cut himself short, realising how nothing appropriate could follow those words. He was not sexist, not in the least; it was simply that he had not expected a young girl to carry a knife, let alone know how to use it – even if that young girl wore biker boots and a jacket he quite admired.

"From a college student?" she finished, laughing off his mistake. She wiped the blade against her shorts before inserting it into a carefully-conceal holster inside her right boot.

"My aunt and uncle never expected it, either," she continued with a smile. "You can imagine their surprise when they found my big brother trying to teach me the three most painful spots to hit a man. Turned out they were his allowance, car keys and Playstation, as he found out soon after."

Her voice seemed to chase the hysteria from the moment, and he selfishly lost himself to the conversation, craving the return to everyday life that it provided, even if just for now.

"Your brother taught you to use that?"

"Yeah," she laughed. "I had my heart set on NYU and he insisted on teaching me how to defend myself if I was going to live in the big city. Used to call me every weekend, just to make sure I was doing alright. I…haven't spoken to him for weeks."

Sadness fell upon her, and her eyes were drawn to the chaos of the streets that they passed. There was no need for her to explain her reasons for being in Raccoon; he already knew.

"He lived in Raccoon?" There was no harm in asking for clarity, and it was perhaps in their best interests to keep the conversation going lest their minds fall back to the danger around them.

"Yes," she spoke quickly. "He-uh…he was a cop, like you. For the S.T.A.R.S. unit, before they disbanded it earlier this month. He suddenly just stopped calling, and nobody knows where he is. I tried contacting him, and his friends, but…no answer. Now I know why. It was reckless of me to come looking for him, I know that, but I think he's in trouble."

"We'll find your brother," he assured her, knowing that it was foolish to make a promise he was not sure that he could keep. "I don't know the best way out of the city, so I'm heading to the police station. They should know what to do. Your brother may still be there. If not, someone may know what happened to him. I'm not making any promises, but we'll do the best we can."

She smiled gratefully but he could tell that she was not clinging to this hope.

"I like you," she told him. "I hate cops, but you're…honest. Just don't baby me, okay? I may be a teenager, but I'm not stupid."

Laughter rang throughout the car, freeing the remaining tension. Claire's appearance had given him hope; if she had survived, there may be others out there, others they could help. He could not promise that he would protect Claire, or even find her brother, but he could offer her hope.

In that moment, hope was all that mattered.

* * *

**_September 28, 1998. 1:59am_**

Where was he? He could barely make sense of his surroundings. Droplets of sweat clouded his vision; his heart almost beat clean out of his chest. Every part of him ached, longed for rest, but he had to keep moving. Blood continued to pour from various wounds and he fought with all his might to ignore what Rebecca had told them all.

A bite. Just one. That was all it took. Even something as simple as smearing a sufficient amount of recently-shed infected blood onto an open wound could turn a man in days; hours if a large amount of the virus entered the system.

He had counted seven bites in total; seven possible sources of infection. Despite the knowledge that this was a death sentence, he struggled on with the hope that somewhere out there, there was a cure…or that he would be the one person lucky enough to avoid infection from multiple wounds. He had to believe it, because he wasn't going to die. No, he couldn't die.

"_S.T.A.R.S._"

"No, no, _no_!"

How the hell could it speak? How did it know who he was, what he was and where he would be? No matter where he ran, it always managed to find him.

Was Jill's luck any better? He did not think that the beast had caught her scent yet, and hoped that it stayed that way. Though he had been desperate to remain with her and to cower in her shadow, he had no desire to offer her up to such a horrible fate. Running was all that kept her safe…for now. Because eventually he would find her.

A blue blur was visible past the gates, and his heart both sank and leapt. He crashed though the gates, frantic, desperate, _manic_.

"Jill!" he screamed, rushing towards her. "Get out of- Get-"

"Brad?"

There was a thud, a sound akin to dropping an elephant from an enormous height. He was here, in all his leather-clad glory. There was nowhere to run, and hiding from this thing was useless.

"Help!" he cried. There was nothing else he could think to do. "Help me! Please…"

She fired into its fleshy hide, but it did not seem to feel the impact of such small bullets. His own weapon was empty; even his knife had been lost in the rush.

It moved towards him, a hand clasped around his throat.

"No, no! Brad! _Brad_!"

He screamed, but it was no use. He had failed to save himself, had even failed in his desire to protect his friend. There were so many regrets that came to mind as he watched the beast's hand rise, so many things he wished that he could put right. So many things, so little time…

And then, time was up.

* * *

**_October 1, 1998. 8am_**

Rebecca had heard the explosion; everyone in town had. They had been assured that they would all be safe from the blast, but she still felt the tremors in the earth.

She could not believe that Raccoon City was gone. It was not a person, it was not an event that ran every last Sunday of the month; it was a city. People never expected cities to leave, they were always just…there.

Where were they?

She had been hours away from boarding her flight to Paris when Barry had contacted her, asking to meet him at an address in Stone-Ville, and to gather as many medical supplies as she could find because he may need her help.

It was no secret that Jill and Brad had not left Raccoon. She had received a frantic phone call from Chris, as had everyone from her parents to Kathy Burton. How he found her parents' number, she did not know. Barry had flown out with the intention of searching for her, but she did not yet know if he had been successful.

The back door swung open all of a sudden and she jumped from the unexpected sound.

"Are you sure it is safe here?"

She did not recognise the lightly accented voice, but a quick peek around the side of an open door revealed Barry's muscular frame and she rushed forward to greet her old friend.

"Did you-" she began, but froze when her answer came to her in the form of a rather inappropriately-dressed familiar face, stained head to toe in blood, dirt and bearing a heavily bandaged shoulder.

"Hey," Jill greeted with a tentative smile. "It's good to see you."

There were a thousand sentiments she wished to throw her way, most of which involved varying degrees of scolds and tongue-lashings. What the hell had she been trying to prove?

Apparently sensing tension between the two, the stranger to Jill's right coughed awkwardly.

"I'm going to take a shower," he explained quickly, and left before she was given the opportunity to ask his name.

"I'll go find some clean clothes for you both," Barry chuckled. "You may want to have a look at her shoulder."

Jill flinched nervously and touched the saturated bandage, as though mere mention of the wound caused pain to flicker through her arm.

"Sit down," Rebecca instructed once they were alone. Somehow, an embrace did not seem appropriate. She was operating in that moment as a medic, not as the scared teenaged friend of a young woman who had obviously been through hell. Had she allowed her emotions to take the lead, she knew that she would be overcome and would be unable to offer the survivors the aid they so obviously required.

Now that distance was not an issue, every mark upon Jill's skin was strikingly evident. Most were simple grazes and bruises that would heal in a matter of days, but she could tell from the colour of the bandage that whatever lay beyond was not so simple, and would likely leave one hell of a scar.

"I'm sorry I didn't call," Jill apologised, fatigue weighing down her words. "It all happened so fast. Everything pretty much snowballed after the first night."

"It's alright," Rebecca smiled. "I'm just glad you're alright. Chris will be too, he's been in quite a state."

Jill did not reply to this, simply flinched when the bandage was carefully peeled back.

"Jesus, Jill," Rebecca gasped. She fought against a rising wave of nausea, reaching quickly for the bowl of water she had prepared in advance.

Even the wounded girl found it hard to glance upon the damage.

"What happened?"

"I'll explain later," Jill excused. "Long story short, Umbrella dropped a few of their own ingredients into the mix."

Rebecca fought hard to disguise her worry; whatever had inflicted this upon her must have been huge. Where Jill had found the strength to pull through, she did not know. The events within the grounds of the mansion were terrifying enough, but to witness your home destroyed in such a horrific manner? She was glad only that she had left with time to spare.

She carefully wiped the area clean and was relieved to find that layers of blood had made the wound beneath appear far more serious than it was. It appeared to be something akin to a burn, as though something had narrowly missed impaling her shoulder but succeeded in breaking the skin nonetheless.

"We haven't heard from Brad," she explained. Anything to draw her friend's attention away from the stinging pain as she cleaned the wound with alcohol drawn from a small bottle she was lucky enough to find the day before.

Jill jumped, which was strange because Rebecca had turned from her injured shoulder and was preparing a fresh bandage. Yet somehow, she had still succeeded in inflicting pain upon the injured woman.

"What?" she wanted to know.

"We…we have a lot to talk about." Her voice was strangled, as though she were reluctant to speak the words that came forth.

Rebecca knew in that moment that Brad had not made it out of Raccoon.

A moment's silence passed for the death of their friend and teammate, and Jill's shoulder was carefully concealed beneath a new, waterproofed bandage.

"Carlos should be done now," she mumbled. "I should shower, too. Take…take a look at his ribs, I think he may have broken a few."

She rose to her feet unsteadily, the pain of overworked muscles threatening to topple her.

"Be nice to him," she requested. "His uniform may read 'Umbrella', but he's on our side. He saved my life; I owe him more than I know how to give."

And with that, she was gone.

The man she assumed was the 'Carlos' Jill had mentioned stepped through the door she had left moments later. She could better see his face now that accumulated dirt had been cleaned away. Younger than Jill yet older than herself, he held himself with more confidence than she would have expected from one who had experienced such trauma for the first time. Something told her that it was not the first time he had witnessed death, nor been forced to fire upon another. A tragic past, made evident in a simple positioning of the shoulders.

"You must be Rebecca?" he asked with a smile, offering his hand to her. She accepted it with a smile of her own.

"Carlos, right?"

"_Si_," he agreed. His lilt told her that Spanish was the most likely contender for his first language, but that he did not hail from Spain. South America, perhaps? If she was to hazard a guess, she would assume Colombia from his accent.

"Well, Carlos," she spoke nervously. After all, unattractive was most definitely not a word she would utilise to describe him. "Apparently I have to take a look at your ribs, so…sit."

Carlos laughed, though obliged and lowered himself to the chair Jill had previously occupied.

"My ribs are broken," he explained. "There really isn't any need for you to check them."

Rebecca sighed with disappointment. It was perhaps better that he did not need to be attended to, but now that her job was effectively over she could not help but feel completely useless.

Carlos turned from her, tugging at a bandage that had obviously been self-applied to his left forearm.

"This may need stitches, though," he offered, holding his arm out towards her.

An unintentional blush rose to her cheeks. He seemed to have sensed her desire for involvement and had offered her what he could. The wound was by no means deep, and though she could apply stitches to it she knew that it would help very little with healing, though would perhaps minimise the width of the scar it would leave.

She set about repairing the damage, not failing to notice how much darker his skin was to her own. She could never seem to tan, even when sunbathing for long periods. Jealously rose in the wake of the wish that she had been so genetically blessed.

"All done," she announced when the last stitch had been painstakingly completed. "You shouldn't need to bandage it but I can wrap it if it stings too much…"

"No," Carlos laughed with raised eyebrows. "You did an amazing job. You sure you're only nineteen?"

She blinked, overwhelmed by his words. It had been far too long since she had spoken to someone other than family or S.T.A.R.S. members.

"How do you-"

"Jill," he explained. "She filled me in on everything on the way over here. I'm sorry about what happened to your friends."

"Yeah," she breathed. "So am I."

It was not until she had exchanged the buzz of Raccoon for the tranquility of her hometown that the emptiness had finally hit her. She had considered Chris in Paris, Barry in Canada and Jill with Brad in Raccoon; such a small number when a few months ago she welcomed large influx of friends that S.T.A.R.S. provided her with. Now, as it transpired, she had one less friend to worry about.

"Hey," Carlos spoke, breaking through her thoughts. "Drop the bad thoughts. They'll only hurt you from here."

He winked in a misplaced attempt to reassure her, and she laughed quietly to herself. Carlos did not have many years on her; if he could remain optimistic in the midst of such a crisis, then so could she. At the very least, she could try.

* * *

**_October 7, 1998. 2:04pm (CET)_**

Five days had passed since Jill's adopted city had been smote by the heavy hand of fate, erasing all trace of Umbrella's significant influence on the wealthy town. Five days and she had only that morning began to adjust to the idea that there was no 'home' to return to.

The crystalline waters of the atlantic ocean had succeeded in calming her mind as they had passed beneath her and she landed in Paris with anticipation so eager she dared not reveal it to the others. At last, she stood on the same soil as Chris, breathed the same air. His phone call had eased her doubts over their next meeting and consequently she looked to the inevitable event with a hopeful mind, if not heart.

"Is all this walking really necessary?" Rebecca groaned. It was no secret that she had not clocked many hours of sleep on the plane; Jill's excitement had kept her awake and enabled her to witness the seemingly neverending conversation between the medic and the newest member of the team.

She wondered if Carlos's friendliness was flirtatious or if he was simply the kind of person who was naturally extremely charming. While she herself had not been fool enough to fall for it, she knew that Rebecca's mind was less wise to the way of men than her own and that her heart was still her own. Jill had not been so lucky on that account.

Whatever it was, she decided to let it be for the time at hand. It would do no harm, and she would intervene if she feared for the young girl's heart. Her worry was likely to be misplaced, and she could not imagine Rebecca tolerating well her attempts to seperate her from a man who, crass flirtation aside, she noted would be a good match for the shy teenager.

"We're almost there," Barry informed the group. "Just this building up ahead."

The building Barry pointed out was a mid-sized apartment block, inconspicuous in a way that pleased her immensely. It was not shabby or run-down, as a hideout would be assumed to be, but it was not glamorous enough to attract the type that Umbrella employed.

There was no doorman as they approached the entrance, and the entire building was inaccessible to those who did not possess a key. She stepped aside hastily as Barry removed the small tool and held open the door for the others.

"I think the two of you should probably talk," he whispered quietly as he held her back. "It's best if we get all unpleasantness out of the way before we dive into this thing."

She nodded in agreement; apologies were owed, and above all she needed her partner back. Whatever was betwen them could be worked out at the end of the madness, but here and now they had to learn how to be friends and push their feelings to the back of their hearts.

The staircase was clean and quiet, and there was not a soul in sight. It was eerie in a sense that she could not quite grasp, and every step that took her closer to Chris's apartment pressed a feeling of unease deeper and deeper into her twisting stomach.

Something was not right.

She quickened her pace, pushing past Carlos and Rebecca on the stairs.

"Sixteen," she muttered beneath her breath. "Sixteen..."

Pausing before she could catch her breath, the weight in her stomach dropped.

There was a door two feet before her, the number '16' displayed clearly in steel decorative numbers against the wood. The door stood open, just a crack.

There was little hope in her actions as she forcefully pushed against the door, revealing the contents of the small dwelling to her and to the others.

"Oh no..."

Barry's hushed utterance barely touched her. She could hear nothing but a faint chime in her ears, which grew increasingly louder with every thought that passed through her mind. The scene before her was surreal; something out aof a movie, not a visual one ever expected to see in ordinary life.

What little furnishings decorated the room were overturned, even the contends of the fridge spilled out onto the floor. Windows were intact, but this offered no relief. Splintered wood, ripped bedsheets; it was utter chaos. No personal possessions were immediately visible; not even a photograph of his beloved sister.

"Are you sure this is the right place?" Carlos asked, obviously picking up on the same niggling details as Jill.

"Damn sure," Barry snapped gruffly. "He...he must have moved on. They found him and he got away; he kept all his things in a duffel bag, it would have been easy to snatch and run."

He was grasping at hope, Jill could tell. Though it comforted her a little to know that her friend was equally worried about Chris, she continued to fight over a crippling pain that had settled in her chest. Mind raced, thoughts falling apart the instant they materialised.

She allowed her eyes to fall to the floor, and caught sight of a personal effect that the others had not yet noticed.

Dropping to her knees, she reached for the bloodstained knife, and the others fell deathly silent around her. It was Chris's knife, there was no doubt about that. Whether or not the blood that stained the knife edge was his was another matter entirely. There was not enough blood to signal a massacre, rather enought to hint at a fairly intense fight that had culminated with a blind slash at skin; the blood was likely drawn defensively, and not deliberately.

"He's alive," she insisted. Her mind was open to no other concept. "He's alive...I know he is."

She stubornly fought off the idea of kidnap, of a clean assasination and subsequent disposal of his body; it was not that they were not realistic, she simply could not contemplate the thought of such horrors. He was not dead, not in captivity...he was out there, somewhere, waiting to be found.

All hope of reconciliation fell from plan. All that she had hoped to find in Paris dissolved before her, and suddenly grasping at ideals simply did not suffice. She was close to tears, could feel pressure building in the corners of her eyes. She no longer cared about apologising or demanding that he explain all he had done; all that she wanted was to know that he was alright.

Perhaps this was her fault? If she had not remained in Raccoon, she would have been with him weeks ago and Barry would have had no need to leave his side. What if they had found him? What if he had escaped with an injury, only to bleed out in some country ditch, never to be found.

The possiblities were numerous, and each was as horrific as the last.

A hand pressed to her shoulder. It was friendly, encouraging, but not overbearing. It expected nothing from her, only offered what little comfort was left in their increasingly smaller world.

"He is alive, and you will need a strong mind if we are to find him," Carlos urged. It was strange how his words, which had previously driven her to her wit's end, soothed the burning pain she felt within. She was wrong to have assumed him irrational and immature. For a child raised amongst violence, he had an extremely compassionate heart, and though he often displayed this goodness in the wrong way, the intention was always good.

"Thank you," she whispered.

She would take his words, and she would be strong for the sake of those who had yet to fall, and those who perhaps needed a sturdy hand to raise them once again to their feet. Chris was alive, she felt it in her heart. She would find him...and she would kick his ass for all the worrying she knew he was about to put her through.

**AN - Please review :)**


	12. Epilogue

**Strength Through Wounding**

**AN - **Well, here we are. Two stories in one year; it feels kind of surreal. This is the final chapter, the epilogue, the end, whatever way you want to put it. It is pretty much Chris and Jill's 'epilogue', so hopefully those of you who were fans of the other characters won't mind too much :). It was a lot harder to write than I had anticipated.  
Anyway, about the sequel. I will be taking a short break before I move on to it, but my definition of 'short' varies from day to day. When I claim I'm taking a break I often get bored and end up going back after a day or two, so it may be up in a couple of weeks. The title is currently 'Blindside', so keep an eye out for it :). It is set at the beginning of the BSAA as we know it, and the main characters this time will be Chris, Jill, Leon and Claire. Action, horror, drama, romance, zombies; there's a bit of everything in it. But that's saying enough for now.

A huge thank you goes out to everyone who has supported me over the course of this story by reading, reviewing, and adding it to favourites and alerts lists. To everyone who reviewed last chapter - **Ultimolu **(number 100, thank you!)**, MathiasMatt, /k/ommando, .-SnipingWolf, Ivilith, Rock Lees Lotus, KT324, cjjs, Sparkle Valentine, Kenshin13, xSummonerYunax **and **J.L. Zielesch** - you rock! Thank you so much for sticking with me, there is no way I would have found the motivation to push myself this far if it wasn't for all your wonderful feedback. I promise to try my best not to disappoint with the sequel.

**_Epilogue _**

**_January 3, 1999. 7:30pm_**

The streets were different here in winter. For one, the French did not seem to fear the cold. Though temperatures had not yet fell to obscene levels, they were still low enough to push Chris into using the internal heater of the car. He had been lucky to find that it was exactly where he had left it, and that he was still in possession of the keys.

"Should I be worried?" Claire asked quietly. The silence was unusual. At the very least, they should be bickering like children by now. Instead, not a word was spoken and Chris remained deep in contemplative thought.

He had not quite been the same since the days of Raccoon's destruction and in all fairness did not believe that he would see the world in the same light ever again. There was no way of knowing if she had escaped, but if the death toll was anything to go by then she was little more than a statistic these days.

'She could have made it out,' he told himself - his nineteen-year-old sister had been lucky enough to survive all that had occurred; a fact for which he was eternally grateful. But made it out into what? Umbrella's presence in the French capital was far greater than he had anticipated. Driven out in a simple matter of days, how could he be sure that her fate had been any kinder? Claire's sure as hell had not been.

_He did not know if Claire would receive the letter he posted, but he allowed it to slip into the postal box nonetheless. Paris felt strange, so isolated without a familiar face nearby. He had never holidayed alone in his life. Not that he would consider present days as a holiday._

_"Non!" a small voice pleaded. Chris turned to observe the struggling figure of a small girl, her tanned skin and deep brown curls so out of place, even with the black beret she wore proudly above the mass of hair._

_A man he assumed to be the girl's father tugged at her wrist almost violently, but she stubbornly refused to be moved. There were very few others in the quiet square, but her cries were barely audible above the cheer of a nearby street band, playing to those seated at a quaint though likely rather expensive café._

_He coughed into a closed fist and turned to leave. Wandering in a strange city when he could barely order a beer let alone ask for directions was not the best idea._

_It was as he passed closer to the wrestling family that he noticed another man, clad in a suit almost identical to the first, rush to the girl and pull on her other arm, this time their endeavour proving successful. The girl continued to struggle, her expression now quite plainly one of fear. She could not have been older than seven, and though he did not have an ear for accents upon foreign words, he was sure that she was not natively French._

_"Lâche-moi!" the girl cried, though the men paid her no attention. Chris changed the direction of his stroll, anger throbbing in time with his pulse._

_"M'aider!" she screamed. "M'aider!"_

_"Hey!" Chris called, now close enough to grab the arm of one of the suits. "What the hell are you doing?"_

_One man looked to the other and all the while the girl continued to struggle with their iron-tight grip._

_"Help me!" she pleaded. "Not my papa!"_

_He had expected the men to refute this claim, not to push against him and move to flee. What they had not anticipated was that Chris was far stronger and much more skilled at maintaining balance than they had anticipated. A well-placed punch and several rather brutal kicks later and it was his hand that the girl grasped. He wasted no time in raising her in his arms, holding her tightly as he took them both far away from the stunned would-be kidnappers._

_The poor girl was terrified, and clung to his T-shirt desperately, tears streaming down her cheeks. He had never seen an attempt at child abduction in such a public and well-lit area, especially not in the hours of daylight. Whoever the perpetrators were, they had obviously not expected the child to put up such a tremendous fight._

_"Are you okay?" he asked the girl, attempting to loosen the grip she had around his neck. If anyone attempted to snatch her now, they would have to take him with them, as the boundaries between adult and child became uncertain even to him. He could have held his hands in the air and she still would have hung from his frame._

_"Oui," she nodded. "Oh, sorry...you _Americano_?"_

_"Yeah, kid," he answered, searching their surroundings now that they had come to a halt. "Where are your parents?"_

_"Papa is bad man," she insisted. "Mama rescue...she help me. I don't know where she go."_

_It was obvious that English was not her first language, and neither was French._

_"It's okay," he hushed. "My name is Chris. I won't hurt you, I promise."_

_At this assurance, she rested her head against his chest, stubborn still in her desire to be under his protection._

_"Gabriella!" The voice called out to him before he laid eyes on the woman, frantic in her sprint towards the girl._

_"Mama!" the girl exclaimed and finally relinquished her painful grip, allowing Chris to lower her to the ground. She was in the arms of the woman a moment later, affection showered down upon her in what must have been a smothering display._

_The woman was obviously mother to the girl; the similarities were undeniable. Olive skin, healthy brunette curls framing a slender and attractive face. She could not have been older than early-thirties._

_"Mama, this is Chris!" the girl declared. "Chris help me. He American!"_

_Hazel eyes met cold blue orbs, and though she rose to her feet suspicion remained etched into every twist of expression. It seemed that her gratitude far outweighed whatever suspicion she harboured, and she extended a hand._

_"Alejandra," she smiled. Her accent was not as prominent as her daughter's, and he could not distinguish it from French. "Thank you, Chris. I cannot begin to explain the depths of my gratitude. If there is anything I can do..."_

_"No!" he gasped, suddenly. "No...no. Ma'am, you're daughter is safe, that's enough for me."_

_As she altered her posture, he caught a glimpse of pale skin beneath her plentiful hair; a scar that ran from her left cheekbone down to the very edge of her jaw, just beneath the ear._

_"Chris..." she murmured, snapping him from a momentary reverie. "Thank you."_

_It seemed that interest had suddenly been found in both his features and in his name. Had he not known it were impossible, he would have thought that she recognised him. _

"Please try to pay full attention to the road," Claire urged. "I know you're depressed but I have no intention of dying before I can legally drink."

"Legally?" There was something in her tone that told him what he had feared; while he himself had been heavy on the alcohol since he could open a beer bottle, he had no desire for his little sister to fall into the dark world of intoxication.

"I think this is it," she laughed, pointing to a lone house up ahead. There were no vehicles on the driveway, no children in the garden and certainly no vile lawn ornaments, the likes of which decorated the gardens of many other houses on the street.

He had yet to see the dwelling Barry had successfully obtained for himself and Rebecca, and the only information he had pertaining to their whereabouts was obtained through the small circle of contacts he had gathered since leaving Paris all those months ago. They had told him that he was foolish to return, but he refused to listen. Plain and simple, he missed his friends. At the very least he could quiz Barry on his attempted rescue mission; if Jill's body had not been found then she was still alive, she had to be.

"Four five two," Claire read, squinting at the number on the front door as the car rolled onto the driveway.

Chris fumbled in the glove compartment, searching for the cigarettes that may or may not have been smoked already.

"Chris," Claire whispered softly. "You need to relax. I'm sure that Jill is alright, but this is bigger than her. You'll be no good to anyone if you're an emotional wreck. If you need to talk, I'm here, but please don't fall apart in front of the others."

He scowled in her direction, partly because he knew that she had a very good point. The emptiness within his chest would not be filled by anger or the wounded provocation of fear, no matter how good it felt to lash out. The pain was on him, every action that hurt her and drove her away due only to his insecurities. He should never have acted so unfairly in the first place; he would deal with the pain, because it was all on him.

"Hey," she hissed with an awkward smile. "She hated the ass side of your personality. You think she would want it to take over full time?"

Laughter escaped his throat at this. If it were not for the 'ass side of his personality', he would perhaps not be in this position. But would the loss be less significant if they had reconciled in time? No, no it wouldn't. Because she would still be gone.

'But there's hope,' he told himself. 'There's always hope. This is Jill Valentine we're talking about; she would have found a way to survive.'

Chris threw open the car door, ignoring the bags in the trunk of the car. There would be time for that later; friends awaited.

The house was old in design - far more antique than he had seen in the States - though was surprisingly not in a state of disrepair. Paint flaked from the window ledges, and the sturdy wood of the porch had begun to rot in the damp condition of the season, but it appeared to be just another average family house, and not the hiding place of Umbrella's most wanted.

"Come on, loser," Claire joked, hooking her arm into his for all the comfort and irritation it offered.

He braced himself, breathing deeply as he raised bruised knuckles to rap sturdily on the front door.

_Chris jumped, upright in a bed that had proven far too comfortable. Had he been dreaming?_

_Again, a rapid succession of knocks against the door._

_Switching suddenly to a mode of defensive aggression, he reached for the knife at the side of his bed and lowered himself quietly to the polished floorboards. It was two thirty in the morning, and nobody knew who the hell he was, let alone where he lived; there was no reason for an early-morning call._

_The corridor outside of the apartment was dark, casing shadows over his visitor as he peered through the peek-hole. Left with no other option, he began to unbolt the door, knife held tightly behind his back._

_"Chris Redfield?" asked a deep, masculine voice before the door had uncovered the face of its owner._

_Chris did not recognise his features, though his words were coated with a thick British accent. It was not smooth or even friendly, and neither was the voice that spoke his name._

_Without further pause for thought, he reached for the collar of the British stranger, pulling him inside the apartment only to slam his lean frame against the wall. He could better see the lines of his face now; late twenties, perhaps, nose twisted at an angle that suggested a recent break, dark brunette hair parted by a thin scar that extended roughly two inches into the hairline. It was clear that he had seen his fair share of action._

_"Who the hell are you?" Chris demanded, pressing his trusty knife against the throat of the struggling man._

_"Wait!"_

_A slender hand appeared suddenly on his bare arm, tanned skin striking chords of familiarity within his mind._

_"Chris, he means no harm."_

_"Alej, get 'im off me," the Brit demanded. With an inconvenient thud, he fell to the floor. "Fuckin' yanks."_

_"Matthew, I warned you..."_

_"That's ace, that is," he groaned, rubbing his irritated neck. "Knew you'd side with 'im."_

_Chris watched the exchange in confusion. The woman - Alejandra, was that her name? - he recognised from earlier that day; the mother of the girl he had saved in a simple act of kindness. This was the first occasion upon which a spontaneous act of kindness had led to him being roused in the middle of the night, answering the door in nothing but his boxers and a knife he was more than prepared to use._

_"I'm sorry," Alejandra apologised in her soothing accent, which Chris had decided was far easier to understand than the angry man's. "We did not think it safe to come in daylight. It will be safer if we talk inside, may we come in?"_

_Was he in a position to refuse?_

_"Sure," he relented._

_"You _are_ Chris Redfield, right?" asked Matthew when the apartment was safely locked and a shirt now covered his bare chest. "S.T.A.R.S. and all that shit?"_

_"Yeah," he answered. He tried hard not to be offended by the mention of 'S.T.A.R.S.' and 'shit' in the same sentence; this man by no means spoke the Queen's English and he assumed that it was a dialect issue and not an intention of offence. "Can't say I'm familiar with either of you."_

_"Matthew Stockard," he introduced, holding out a hand doubtlessly for mere formality. "This is Alejandra Benítez-Romero"_

_"Benítez," Alejandra corrected. "But names are not important. We are here because we think you can help us, Chris...and I know that we can help you."_

_Chris felt as though he had missed a large part of the conversation. He had little doubt that half of his mind was still sleeping, and the limited number of brain cells that were at his disposal at that particular moment in time were having difficulty in grasping the particulars of her explanation._

_"Alej, let me do all the explaining," Matthew offered, obviously sensing the other man's confusion. "We're members of...well, I guess you could call it an anti-Umbrella group."_

_Suddenly, he had the attention of every available brain cell, and a few more that had woken at the mention of 'anti-Umbrella'._

_"We're a sorry little gang," he continued. "Only 'bout six of us at the moment, but it's enough. We heard about what happened at that mansion; read all the stories an' everything. Alej here, she came to us yesterday babbling about how one of the Americans we'd read about saved her kid and...well we 'ad to look into it."_

_"Wait a minute," Chris interrupted. "Anti-Umbrella? How?"_

_Alej turned from them both, and Matthew looked to her with concern in his eyes. All of a sudden, Chris regretted probing; the subject of the mansion was still a sore one to touch upon, and he it only made sense that the others had likely faced similar horrors._

_"Some of us used to work for Umbrella," Matthew explained. "Some of us are family of people hurt by what they've done. Alej here...she used to work for the evil-"_

_"I was a researcher," she was sure to emphasise. "Back home in Argentina. It was legitimate work in pharmacology. My husband also worked for the same research facility, as head of their legal department..."_

_As she turned back to them, she touched her left forearm tenderly._

_"One day, I was approached by the head of section," she continued. "I was offered a promotion, which I soon found out was to take charge of a portion of their illegal research. I was appalled by their actions, as were many others, and I declined. I left the company with the intention of reporting them to the government... Then they took her, my little Gabriella."_

_Chris was sure that his heart did not beat. His throat ran dry and his extremities tingled; all signs of a fear response, though he was not in immediate danger. It was the girl, he assumed...Umbrella had begun to experiment on Lisa Trevor when she was little more than a child. They did not discriminate on the grounds of age, race or gender. A test subject was a test subject._

_"My husband did nothing," she sobbed. "He told me to give in, to work for them. They threatened me with my little girl, but I still refused. Then they...got violent."_

_Slowly, she pulled back the thick material of her polo neck jumper. A thick sliver of scar tissue ran from just below her wrist to the elbow, curving around her forearm. His eyes flitted automatically to the scar at her cheek, and suddenly the story was complete._

_"I don't know for how long they beat me before I found the strength to fight back," she breathed. "But I did, and I found Gabriella and I ran. Soon after, I found out that I was a wanted woman; my husband claimed that I had kidnapped our daughter. I had heard stories about kidnapped children being taken to Japan, so that's where I went. The authorities wouldn't help me, not in any country I fled to. Perhaps that was their plan. After a few weeks of lying low, I came to Europe, and I met another with a similar story to tell. I vowed that I would not let that corporation get away with what they have done."_

_He dared not break the silence that fell. Though he was childless, he could imagine the pain she must have suffered witnessing her daughter being used as a pawn against her. What he could not imagine was the limits of his fury if Claire was used in such a way._

_"So you see," Matthew spoke quietly. "Umbrella have been hurting people for years. My uncle used to work for 'em, few years back. Was the only family to leave Liverpool in a decade; kind of ironic. He found out what they were doing, tried to expose 'em. So they had 'im killed...but not before he sent all he'd found to someone trustworthy; me. The police wouldn't do nothin', nobody would. So I decided to take things into my own hands, kind of like what you lot are doing."_

_It made sense that Umbrella had hurt more than those in Raccoon, but he had never anticipated meeting any of these so-called 'anti-Umbrella operatives'. They were more than a campaign group, but less than a guerrilla faction. They were freedom fighters; hearts aching for justice._

_"We want you to join us, Chris," Alej pleaded._

* * *

"Honorificabilitudinitatibus?" Jill read, unsure if she was reading the word from the correct end. "That is not a word."

"I think you'll find it is," Leon insisted with a smug grin that was beginning to grind on her patience. "If Shakespeare used it, it's a real word."

"Shakespeare, huh?" She did not know if she was more amazed that the strange man read Shakespeare or that he could quote such a complex word from the Bard's work.

"Love's Labour's Lost," he drawled. "Act five, scene one. Honestly, Valentine, I'm extremely underwhelmed by your vocabulary."

There was no point in fighting a battle she was sure to lose and so she awarded him points that rendered his position unbeatable. He had effectively won.

"Remind my why I'm playing Scrabble with you?" she asked with an amused sigh.

"Because you took advantage of those of us who do not have English as a first language," Carlos reminded her, not even bothering to glance up from the magazine he pored over.

Leon chuckled as he cleared the board and met her eyes as though to ask if she were ready for another round. Ready to be thoroughly embarrassed twice in one evening? Put simply: no.

She suppressed the urge to demand that he return to America and leave her to her reigning title of Scrabble Champion, but decided that the pleasure of his company was worth the occasional reminder that her intellectual spirit was being challenged on an almost daily basis. There was something about Leon Kennedy that she found easy to connect to. He understood her in ways the others did not, and provided conversation that was both intellectually stimulating and pleasurable to engage in. It felt on many levels that she had found the male equivalent of herself. A terrifying thought in it's own right, but it pleased her for now.

His entrance into their rather small group had occurred quite by chance. Upon arriving in Paris, Barry had succeeded in making contact with two members of an anti-Umbrella campaign group. Two members were all they had, the others having been apparently driven from the city days earlier. As the weeks passed, more and more members joined their cause; survivors of Raccoon, friends and families of victims alongside those who believed that something was not quite right about the 'pandemic'. It was not long before members with power had joined, several of whom had current, usable ties to the US and French governments.

A few days before the evening they currently slogged through, Leon had approached them with the claim that he knew the younger of the Redfield siblings. He was under government care, but did not appear to be in their employ. All that he would disclose was the receipt of an SOS from Claire Redfield, and the attempts to contact her brother that he hoped had been successful. He had hoped to find that Chris was amongst their group so that he would learn of Claire's fate, but alas he was not.

Jill did not know why he remained with them when he would often mention the need to return to America. She could not help but wonder if he waited for the same reasons as she; the Redfield siblings.

Three months had passed since Chris's apartment had been found ransacked, and in that time there was not a whisper of his whereabouts. With every dead end that they stumbled upon, she found that the hope of his survival slipped further through her fingers. What had once been healthy optimism now bordered on plain delusion. If he was truly out there, would she ever see him again? She hoped so; her well of tears was steadily running dry.

A hollow knock echoed throughout the entrance passageway, and suddenly silent alarm bells rang. Living in the shadows sure took its toll on the nerves.

"Stay here," Barry instructed as he appeared at the foot of the stairs, tucking his oversized firearm into the waistband of his jeans.

She began to help Leon pack the contents of the game that had prematurely ended into its badly beaten box. Entertainment was scarce, and it seemed that Scrabble was now on her list of 'games not to play with Leon'. When she considered the fact that Monopoly was missing several property cards, snakes and ladders had only one pawn and the only deck of cars they owned was missing three aces and the King of Spades, she felt that they had an extremely boring wait ahead of them.

Because wait was all they could do.

Voices hummed in the hallway past the living room, friendly conversation unintelligible but there nonetheless. Of course, the only individuals who knew their whereabouts were the other members of their so-called 'group'. It seemed that the conversation dried up in a short matter of minutes, and Barry stepped back into the living area with a more relaxed posture and cheek-splitting smile.

"You are not going to believe what just dragged its ass in," he laughed. It was strange to see a smile through the thicket his beard had become.

Curious now, Jill watched as a young girl stepped into view, seeming to push stubbornly past a much larger frame that remained out of view.

It had been almost a year since she had last seen Claire Redfield, but the woman who seemed to find her appearance rather hysterical was definitely the younger of the Redfields. Those bright blue eyes were unmistakeable, and she had envied the tone of her silky hair long enough to recognise the girl it belonged to.

Claire's eyes snapped suddenly to Leon, who had quickly risen to his feet upon her arrival.

"A phone call would have been nice," he scowled, though Jill detected the same relief within his words that she felt in her heart. Having known of Claire's predicament, she too had worried for the girl.

As realisation seeped through the happiness of her thoughts, she weighed the meaning of Claire's return against what she knew to be true.

'That would mean...'

There was no mistaking the face of the man who followed, even before those cold blue eyes met hers.

"Chris..." His name came as little more than a whisper, and she was sure that he had not heard her utterance.

He was a haunted man in that moment, expression frozen somewhere between casual nonchalance and relieved disbelief. The moment was too surreal to contemplate; in many ways she felt as though they were meeting for the very first time. Something crackled in the air, something potent and unforgiving but completely nameless.

"Would the three of you like to show me the rest of the house?" Claire asked, catching what the others had failed to see.

"Oh, yes...yes," Carlos hurried, casting his magazine carelessly aside. Jill was vaguely aware of the emptying of the room, of the severing of souls from the moment, but she could not bring herself to care.

"You...you made it," Chris gasped, a smile finally breaking through the shock. He stepped forward, long legs carrying him hastily to her. "You-"

She did not know what made her raise her hand to him, only that her palm throbbed terribly from the impact. Her entire body shook; from rage or relief, she could not tell. She was sure that the tremors measured somewhere on the Richter Scale.

Her assault had silenced him. Would he speak again? She could not find the nerve.

"Still holding back," he chuckled humourlessly. "I deserved a closed fist at least."

Hands covered her face, trembling fingers sliding past her hairline. Words caught within her throat, sentiments suddenly amounting to naught. How could she tell him all that she felt in one breath? There was a side of her that wanted to throttle him for making her worry, another that wished the same but for his actions prior to his departure, but there was a softer side that simply wanted to express her unending gratitude to whatever higher force had brought him back to her.

As usual, her body seemed to be one step ahead of her mind, and she was in his arms, startled to feel them wind tightly around her. He smelled just as she remembered; tobacco and familiarity. It was strange how something as simple as a scent touched upon levels than her emotions had yet to reach. There was comfort in his arms and she sought it out greedily, convincing herself that he owed her that much.

He pulled back before she became dependent on his comfort, reaching up to place a hand on each cheek. Somewhere between slap and embrace, she had shed tears, though she could not recall the sensation of crying. His lips fell next, kissing away the salty liquid, bringing warmth to her frozen skin.

His desperation was matched only by her own and eventually lonely lips found one another. Whatever it was she felt that he needed to know, it was evident in what ensued. The kiss was not gentle, not by any means. It was the kiss of two individuals who knew that the moment was soon to end; desperate but loving, exchanging everything that was needed in the sensuality of the moment.

Then, it was as though her mind suddenly snapped, and the moment was pulled from her.

"I...can't," she gasped into his open mouth as she pulled away, putting more distance between them than was perhaps necessary.

"I'm sorry," he apologised hurriedly. "About everything, Jill. Hell can't be half as bad as what I've been through."

"What _you've_ been through?" she asked incredulously, trying not to dwell on the narcotic taste of his kiss that still lingered, it seemed, within every corner of her mouth. "Did you think I would shrug off your leaving without saying a word? I tried to find you, Chris, but you left...you-"

She had tried for far too long to suppress the memories of that day, but found that they all came rushing forth at once as she confronted him. It had never been her intention to dive straight into an argument, but events appeared to have turned in that direction.

"You didn't even call!" she cried out. "We found your apartment, completely destroyed, your knife covered in blood on the floor...and you didn't even call!"

There was no breath to carry her words and she recognised that she sounded confused, dazed and perhaps unsure of what she intended to say. Looking into her surprisingly empty mind, she found that this was truly how she felt and not simply the manifestation of surprise.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, and she could tell that he had never forced so much meaning into those words as he did now.

It seemed to be enough, at least for her heart. She finally felt able to listen to reason.

"I never should have left you," he stated. His hands slid up her arms, injecting soul into his words.

"What happened?"

_There was a bang again on the door that night, more forceful than that which had woken him several days earlier. Late night visits, it seemed, were commonplace within his adopted group. He was sure to pull on the clothes he had prepared for the following morning before turning to the visitors he made note to shoo away were it not important._

_He unchained the door, pulled the lock- and flew backwards, colliding painfully with the frame of the bed._

_There was barely enough time for him to regain his balance before he fell again, struck by a blow powerful enough to stun but weaker than he knew how to deal with. His assailant was ironically masked, moving so fast it did not register immediately that there were two intruders, each one striking him at every available opportunity._

_Fists collided with the coils of the mattress as he dodged a particularly heavy blow, leaping up to catch a masked figure off guard whilst delivering a series of powerful strikes to the ribs. Stunned, they fell to the floorboards and with a sudden spin, he slashed at the arm of the second in time to deflect a strike from the assailant's own weapon._

_Arms held his back, knocking the knife from his grasp. He could not move, restricted in a position he was simply not flexible enough in pain to free himself from._

_All fell as something painfully hard collided with the human restraint._

_"Run!" shouted Matthew._

_"I'm not leaving you," Chris insisted, wrestling a black figure to the ground. He was not given an opportunity to consider the implications of Matthew's sudden arrival._

_"Alej's in the van wi' the others!" he grunted. "Outside. I'll follow, now go!"_

_Chris obeyed. The men were eager but weak. He had sparred with Matthew several times in the past few days and had a series of nasty bruises to show for it; he was more than capable of handling himself._

_Slinging a nearby duffel over his shoulder, he raced to the bottom of the complex, darted across the parking lot and jumped into the familiar blue van, pulling inside the small child that had leaned out to wave._

_"Stay safe," he reminded her, tousling her hair amicably._

_"Where is Matthew?" asked the driver._

_"I'm here, go, go, go!" cried the man in question, feet still touching the tarmac as the van began to move. They were clear in a matter of minutes, no one on their tail and nothing in the way._

_Chris wasted no time in demanding to know what had happened._

_"Édouard," Alej explained. "He sold us out. Umbrella have been observing us all for the past two days, and when we discovered that he was a traitor, they began to attack. We lost Étienne; we were scared we would lose you, too."_

_"We worry," Gabriella whined as she left her mother's side to hold his arm. She had been rather fond of him ever since the day he had met her mother, relying on him perhaps a little too much. He did not mind the attention, and quite liked the company of the child. She was wise beyond her years, though her English was limited. On the quiet days he would teach her useful words and she in turn would school him in French and Spanish. Though, as pleasant as every moment with her was, it only brought home the depths of his desire to one day be a father, and the disheartening truth of the reality that it may no longer be an option._

_"I'm alright," he assured her, holding onto her small frame as a sharp bump rocked the van. "I promised I would be, didn't I?"_

_She nodded happily, though remained by his side. The scene brought a smile to Alejandra's thin lips and appreciation could be sensed in the intensity of her gaze. Alej was another member of the team he had grown to be quite fond of, in more ways than he would like to admit to. She was smart, attractive, strong...she reminded him so much of his absent partner. Yet in the same way, she was not Jill, and somehow that made all the difference._

_"Where are we going?" he asked, suddenly aware that said partner could in fact be landing in Paris at that very moment._

_"Belgium," Matthew informed him. "It's small, Umbrella's presence there is limited-"_

_"Whoa," Chris interrupted, halting his friend's speech. "I can't leave Paris."_

_"Why the hell not?"_

_"My friends, they-"_

_Matthew groaned audibly, frustrated already at his forthcoming excuse._

_"Forget about yer mates," he explained. "Umbrella have got tabs on us all. If we don't leave, they'll kill us, simple as."_

_Death was not a suitable reason to flee, not when they would be here _any day_. Something told him that Matthew would not understand this; he had left a family behind in England, all for the sake of the fight._

_"No, you don't understand," he pressed angrily. "My friends are my teammates, they are here for the same reason we are. I can't just leave them."_

_"Ah, give yer chin a rest," Matthew groaned before his expression turned serious. "Umbrella have their eye on _you_, nor' on _them_. They don't know they're here."_

_"Matthew is right," Alej agreed, cutting off their Scouse friend. Her manner was far softer than the males of the team; perhaps she believed that she could appeal to him on another level. "If you contact your friends, Umbrella will likely find out. You will lead the enemy right to them. The farther from them you are, the safer they will be, at least until we shake their attention."_

_"A few months lying low should do the trick."_

_Reluctant though he was to accept their assurance, he knew that they were right. His feelings did not come into this, but their safety did. He would rather die than needlessly risk the lives of his friends._

"I'm sorry," he repeated, as though the quantity of the sentiment would increase its value. "I couldn't risk exposing you all."

She fell into silence as she contemplated his story. He made no excuses for his actions, spoke only of the realities he had faced; he was being honest.

The warmth of his fingertips travelled up her arms, strong hands gripping her shoulders. Then the right fell away, exposing the skin of her left shoulder to the cool air.

"What-" he began. "What is this?"

She made to cover her scar, though the damage had already been witnessed.

"Don't change the subject," she defended. Memories of what occurred in the final days of Raccoon City were still painful to remember, and her reluctance to speak of those events would likely cause further argument between them.

"Jill, what happened?" His voice was firm this time, demanding in a way that called every one of her senses to attention; was she on trial?

"It's nothing," she insisted, shrugging away his hand as it traced the pink outline. Phantom pain still festered beneath the skin and every single memory that came with the reminder of that monster was unwelcome. It was not the monster itself she had feared; it was the feeling of being hunted, of knowing that no matter where you ran to, evil would find you and it would hurt you.

"You were there?" he whispered when the obvious dawned upon him. "Jill..."

"Stop saying my name!" she hissed. She did not truly mind, but the way he spoke the word brought a false sense of guilt down upon her and she knew that she owed him nothing.

"Yes, I was there," she snapped. "I stayed because no one else was helping those people! You have no idea what it was like, _Chris_. I watched my neighbours turn into those monsters, I saw people turn their guns on themselves when they weren't even infected! I watched one of their bioweapons cut Brad down."

Her words brought pain to his eyes, and though it was not a sight she relished, she found that she could not help but to push forward.

"What?" Chris gasped. "No, he-"

"He's dead," she growled. "The thing that killed him; it came after me. It killed one of the men who tried to help me, and then it infected me. _That_ is how I got this scar."

Speechless was not a state she had ever expected to find Chris Redfield in. He always had something to say about everything; a complaint, a joke, even a compliment he liked to pretend was not heartfelt.

"You can't _imagine_ what it was like." Her voice cracked as she choked on the bitter memories. Pain, confusion...death. "To...to feel your body slowly dying, and your mind decaying with it. The pain was bad enough, but the hallucinations... It's not an experience you _want_ to live through."

"Are you cured?" he asked quietly, expression horror-stricken. He was not quite reacting the way she had expected him to. This was not what she had prepared for in the few seconds she had allocated for logical thinking. Comfort was silently offered to her and his seemingly empathetic approach to her ordeal made it so that she wanted nothing more than to accept and forget all that she had learned during their time apart.

"Yes," she confirmed, losing the will to shout or scold. "Carlos - the man with dark hair that was in here before - he, uh- he found a prototype vaccine Umbrella were working on at Raccoon General and luckily it worked. He saved my life."

A grateful smile was misinterpreted and she witnessed a flicker of jealousy in his otherwise concerned eyes. Inwardly, she smiled. Jealousy was a difficult emotion to provoke in this man, she knew that well. If he cared for her enough to feel this hideous emotion, then he cared enough to enable her to open her guarded heart just a little.

"Carlos?" He spoke the word as though it were something despicable.

"He's a very good friend," she enthused. It was perhaps best not to poke a sleeping dragon in the eye, but she could not help herself. If he truly felt for her then this was her in; he would never admit to it of his own accord. To her delight, the flicker became something more substantial and this time did not fade.

"That's all we are," she laughed. "Friends."

"Friends like us?"

Somehow her attempt at diffusal failed miserably, serving only to fuel the fire she wished she had not lit.

"Don't start with that," she groaned. Frustration drove her to pace the carpet, brought to a standstill only when she collided unintentionally with a wooden chair and dropped into it to mask her mishap.

"Did you get my message?"

Should she admit to it? It frustrated her that she could not identify her true feelings amidst the flurry of defensive reasoning within her mind. She knew what she wanted from him, and what she was willing to offer in return; where she stood in the matter of her affection for him and how she wanted to react to this. But the underlying emotions remained cleverly disguised, as did all other harmful thoughts.

"I did," she breathed. "Thank you, but..."

Could she go through with it? Her chest constricted at the very thought of admitting her innermost feelings to him. On any other occasion she would have lied, but she was ready to bare her heart and soul and admit just what she felt.

"I can't do this anymore." Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes, the edges of her lips twitching dangerously downward. "I know that I am not blameless, but I have spent far too long nursing feelings that you have hurt. This isn't me, Chris, this isn't what I do! I don't cry over men, I don't lose my mind because some guy is talking to me one moment and ignoring me the next. You know me, I roll with this stuff...but it's different with you, and I can't explain it."

"I-" he began, close enough to her now that she could feel his body heat. Still, she did not rise, and though she waited for him to join her at the table he continued to remain standing.

"Just listen," she begged. "If you care as much as you claim you do, then just listen."

He heeded this request with the obedience of a lap dog. The distance between them increased as he moved away to rest against the back of the sofa, hands shoved into the front pockets of his naturally-distressed jeans. She could tell that he was safeguarding both himself and her, creating space between them so that he would not be tempted to interrupt.

"I don't care what your reasons for leaving were," she admitted. "Whether or not it was your intention to make me feel as though you just didn't give a shit, that's what you achieved. I really don't care what you do now. I don't care what you say, because nothing could possibly hurt me any more than-"

The first tear escaped, and though she could sense in his body language that he desperately wanted to speak, he remained respectfully silent. If she had thought that complete obedience would make this task any easier, she was wrong. It only showed that he was willing to do whatever she asked to repair the damage they had both caused to their friendship and to each other. Sad though it was to accept, she did not want him to obey; she wanted him to argue, to fight, and she would get angry and they would kiss and somehow it would all work out.

'But that only happens in the movies,' she realised with a disappointed heart. It was wounded, and required the protection of a mind that worked hard to remain resolute.

"I don't want you to be sorry, so please don't say that you are. We both know that the blame is shared. I've exhausted myself worrying about you and about us, and I just don't have the energy to keep up with this anymore."

She rose to her feet, hoping that it would provoke him into forgetting what she had requested and making a move of his own. When he did not move other than to return his gaze to hers, she boldly stepped up to where he stood. She could feel that her admission had hurt him, but sensed that the pain did not surround her words or what they had implied.

Her proximity startled him at first, but he adjusted to the unnatural warmth and reached for a clammy hand. The reflexive action to hiss when he felt just how cold her fingers were dissipated when he saw light return to her eyes. He did not blame her for what she had said; how could he when she spoke only of her feelings? It warmed him considerably to watch her fight once again, to assert herself and stand up as the Jill Valentine he knew and loved and defend herself against something that he had simply not yet learned how to express without inflicting pain on at least one party.

'If she cares enough to be honest...'

"I've never felt like this before," she laughed. "I've felt joy and overwhelming happiness, and pain and despair. But nothing compares to this. It's overwhelming and I can't control it. It's _terrifying_. But somehow, I don't want to control it or even fight it; I don't think I could _breathe_ without it."

How could he tell her that he agreed? He was too afraid to speak, lest the truth come tumbling from his tongue. The truth was too dangerous in its current form. Understanding was all that they could ask for.

"Let's wait until Umbrella is finished," he suggested. "We can deal with all of this when that happens. You are my friend above everything, Jill, and I don't want to lose that."

She nodded in agreement and allowed him to pull her towards his body, enveloping her with arms that he promised himself would find their way back around that body some day.

"For what it's worth," she whispered, the sound muffled by the thick fabric of his sweatshirt. "I can't wait for that day."

"No more emotional drama?"

Jill laughed.

"We both know that isn't going to happen."

Her rigid body relaxed against him as she finally released the tension he could feel radiating from her the moment he stepped through the door. It was as though a great invisible burden had been spirited away and she could finally stand up tall and be at ease with herself and with him.

Ease was never a place he expected to find himself returning to, but what he felt could now be described only as such. It was up to him what happened next.

"Have you seen le Louvre yet?" he asked.

She pulled back just enough so that she could observe his expression, perhaps to gauge his seriousness.

"Not yet, no," she replied. "Why?"

"I'm taking you tomorrow."

Naturally, she laughed. He despised art, and she knew this better than anyone. Even the Mona Lisa could not sway him her way.

"Did you hit your head or something? You hate art."

"But you don't," he pointed out. "We need to spend some time learning what normal is before we have any chance of finding our way back there. Besides, I have just as much fun mocking art as you do appreciating it."

She considered his point, though had agreed with it almost instantly. Ruminating over the idea did not seem as eager to her and she did not want to appear desperate to find their way back to where their world used to stand. Slow was the only speed that ensured that their friendship survived intact.

A day at le Louvre could be fun. The realisation that they had few tastes in common had hit her not long after they had first met, but somehow had not prevented her from falling for him. That was the beauty of it in her eyes; what she felt could not be explained, there was no logical reason for attraction. In the end, she surmised that either it was honestly true love that she felt, or that cupid had very poor aim.

"We would make such a strange couple," she mused aloud.

Horrified, she drew a sharp intake of breath and leaned into him again, hoping to disguise the furious blush that rose to her cheeks.

'Speak words, think thoughts,' she scolded herself. 'You're blushing now, fool. How old are you?'

Rather than pull away in fear, he moved his hands in a friendly motion against her back.

"Yeah," he agreed with a deeply appreciated chuckle. "I don't think the world is ready for us...not yet."

And with those two simple words, he offered up a world of hope. Umbrella would fall, she knew that for certain, and when it did... Well, she did not quite know what would happen. Life had taught her to predict nothing, because it always had a funny way of surprising even the most perceptive of people. But she had sensed an unspoken promise in his words, and an admission that he had perhaps not intended to reveal. Whatever happened, she knew that it would be wonderful and this small glimmer of hope gave her strength to push forward and rise up to the woman she needed to be.

She realised now that nothing had truly changed, not with her life, with her work or with her partnership with the one man who could both drive her insane and provide her with incomparable comfort simply with his presence. Beneath all of the confusion, it all remained the same; only now it was more complicated. But complications had a tendency to unravel. With the presence of newfound hope, they all knew that one day they would find their way back to normal.

That is the beauty of faith; it can be misplaced, but never truly lost.

**AN - Please review :)**


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